summary: two lines that change everything you have with Dean
pairing: dean dilaurentis x reader
content: unplanned pregnancy, romance, drama
inspiration: Teach Me How To Love by Shawn Mendes (preview of the song at the end of the story)
The digital display on the plastic stick didn’t fade, blink, or offer a polite disclaimer. It just sat there on the marble counter of Dean Di Laurentis’s pristine apartment bathroom, stark and uncompromising: Pregnant.
For a guy who usually had a quick-witted comeback for absolutely everything, Dean was entirely silent. He stared at the counter, his usual effortless confidence momentarily evaporating. Beside him, you were sitting on the edge of the bathtub, your knees pulled tight to your chest, looking small, overwhelmed, and incredibly fragile.
You weren't supposed to be this. You were fun, passionate, and incredibly good together, but you hadn't planned for a third party to crash your timeline. Dean was a law student; he excelled at arguments, strategy, and staying three steps ahead. But there was no legal precedent or syllabus that prepared him for the sudden, violent shift in his reality.
Slowly, Dean dropped to his knees on the bathmat, bringing himself to your eye level. He reached out, his large hands gently unclasping your fingers from your shins, wrapping his warmth around your trembling hands.
"Hey," he said, his voice surprisingly steady despite the adrenaline hammering in his chest. He offered you a faint, uncharacteristically soft smile. "Look at me."
You looked up, your eyes bright with unshed tears, searching his face for panic, anger, or retreat.
"We’re going to figure this out," Dean promised, squeezing your hands. "I'm not going anywhere. If you're in, I'm in. Completely."
The relief that washed over your face was instantaneous. You leaned forward, burying your face into his neck. Dean held you tight, staring over your shoulder at the tiny screen on the counter. The playboy lifestyle, the carefree nights—they were officially over. A new chapter was forcing its way open.
(...)
The first trimester was a masterclass in survival. The glamorous life Dean usually curated gave way to the harsh realities of morning sickness, crushing fatigue, and a roller coaster of hormones.
Dean threw himself into his new role with the same intensity he used to reserve for hockey or final exams. He became an overnight expert on prenatal vitamins, ginger lozenges, and the exact brand of saltines that didn't make you nauseous at 6:00 AM. His law textbooks sat on the coffee table, flanked by thick paperbacks on infancy and developmental milestones.
The true turning point arrived at the twelve-week ultrasound.
The room was dim, smelling faintly of sterile gel and paper sheets. You held Dean’s hand so tightly his knuckles turned white as the technician moved the transducer across your abdomen. Suddenly, a rhythmic, rapid sound filled the small room—like the thundering of tiny horse hooves. Thump-thump-thump-thump.
"There's the heartbeat," the technician said with a smile.
Dean froze; his eyes locked on the grainy black-and-white monitor. A tiny, flickering shape appeared on the screen. The reality of it hit him like a physical blow to the sternum. That was his. That was yours.
He looked down at you, and found you already looking at him, tears streaming down your cheeks. Dean leaned down and kissed your forehead, his own chest aching with a profound, terrifying amount of love.
"We're making a person," he whispered against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. "An actual, tiny person."
(...)
The romantic haze of the ultrasound didn't last forever. By the third trimester, the sheer weight of what was coming began to press down on both of you.
Dean was drowning in finals, trying to secure a summer associate position, and spending every spare second assembling a crib, painting the nursery, and ensuring you didn't lift a finger. You were exhausted, uncomfortable, and dealing with the terrifying anxiety of how much your life, identity, and body were changing.
The tension snapped over something completely trivial: a missing box of specific, non-dairy chocolate ice cream Dean had forgotten to pick up on his way home from a grueling six-hour study session.
"I asked for one thing, Dean!" you cried, your voice cracking as you stood in the kitchen, your round belly prominent under one of his oversized hockey jerseys. "One thing! You say you have everything under control, but you're never actually here!"
"I'm trying to clear my schedule so I can be present when the baby actually gets here!" Dean snapped back, his temper flaring from sheer exhaustion. "I’m doing the work of three people right now! Cut me some slack!"
"I don't want a super man who tries to do everything at once, Dean! I just want my partner!" you sobbed, covering your face with her hands.
The anger drained out of Dean as quickly as it had arrived. He looked at your slumped shoulders, seeing the genuine fear and exhaustion underneath the outburst. He stepped across the kitchen, closing the distance between you two, and pulled you into his arms. You resisted for a second before melting against his chest, crying into his shirt.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, rocking you gently. "I'm scared too. I'm so scared I'm going to mess this up."
"You're not going to mess it up," you whispered back, your grip tightening on his waist. "We just need to do it together. No more superhero acts."
(...)
The birth was a blur of fluorescent lights, intense pain, and a fierce, primal focus. Dean stayed right by your side, holding your hand, murmuring reassurances, and watching in absolute awe as you brought your daughter into the world.
When the nurses finally placed the swaddled, quiet bundle into your arms, the world outside the hospital room ceased to exist.
A few hours later, the room was quiet, washed in the soft, gray light of dawn. You were fast asleep, utterly spent from labor. Dean sat in the armchair beside the bed, holding his newborn daughter. She was impossibly small, wrapped in a pink-and-blue striped hospital blanket, her tiny fingers loosely curled around his thumb.
Dean looked at the baby, then over at the girl sleeping peacefully in the bed. His life looked absolutely nothing like he had envisioned a year ago. It was messy, unpredictable, and entirely unplanned.
But as his daughter let out a tiny, soft sigh in her sleep, Dean felt a sense of purpose and completeness he had never experienced on a hockey rink or in a courtroom. The ups and downs had brought you two here—to this quiet morning, to this perfect, fragile new beginning.
He leaned down, brushing his lips against the baby's soft forehead.
"Welcome to the team, little girl," Dean whispered. "We're going to be just fine."
genre: idol au, established relationship, angst, pfp
summery: you waited the last six months for the love of your life to finally come home. and when he finally does with his uniform crisp, with open arms, smile bright—you realize some things can’t be rehearsed. some things break the script entirely. especially the kind of love that arrives shaking, breathless, and swollen with surprise.
warnings: military discharge, birth control failure, unplanned pregnancy, soft angst, lots of crying, oral!f receiving, breast play, fluffy emotional sex, mentions of body insecurity, aftercare,soft domestic jimin 😜, pregnancy cravings, brief depictions of labor & childbirth
word count: 5,819
a message from our sponsors 💁🏽♀️: i’ve realized i might have a thing for daddy jimin. there’s just something about soft but fiercely protective jimin that gets me going 🤪. and i KNOW i’m not the only one. so don’t judge me, judge your mother. anyways, hopefully you enjoy! i definitely got a little carried away while writing this 🤭💜✨
The sun raked across Jimin’s cheeks as he smiled for the camera, standing shoulder to shoulder with Jungkook in front of the training facility gates. Cameras flashed, reporters called his name & cheered from behind barricades.
It was a brief blur of gratitude, bows, and polite words rehearsed more times than he could count.
But none of it felt real.
Not the neatly pressed uniform or the click of camera shutters. Not even the company assigned car idling by the curb, ready to take him away from duty and back to the life he left behind.
The only real thing waiting for him, he knew, was you.
His fingers twitched as he climbed into the van, the smile he offered through the tinted glass fading the second the door shut. He blinked out the window, watching Jungkook’s van pull off first, laughing as it fishtailed slightly before catching traction again.
Typical.
Jimin glanced at the empty seat beside him and frowned, just for a moment.
You were supposed to ride with him. It wasn’t like you to skip something like this, especially after so long apart. His last leave was six months ago. Six months without your voice in his ear at the end of each day, your fingers in his hair, your warmth pressed against his side in bed.
You had said you wanted to surprise him. That you had something special planned.
And okay… you were terrible at keeping secrets. Always a little jittery. Always giving yourself away with the tilt of your smile or the too quick shuffle of your feet.
Still, Jimin’s stomach rolled with unease as the city blurred past the windows.
—
The apartment was dark.
Not dim. Not softly lit.
Dark.
The curtains were all drawn tight. The only light came from the blue glow of the television and the soft amber of an accent lamp in the corner. Even from the entryway, he could feel the chill in the air—sharp, unwelcoming.
He set down his overnight bag, toeing off his shoes with a frown.
“Honey?” he called gently, stepping farther inside.
No answer.
Then he heard the sound of a soft sniffle and the flicker of movement from the living room.
He found you bundled on the couch, a blanket pulled up to your nose. Just your eyes peered over the edge at him, wide and glistening. The sweater you wore hung loose around your shoulders.
You smiled weakly. “Welcome home.”
Jimin’s heart swelled and ached in the same breath.
He moved toward you, arms already outstretched. “Come here, pretty girl. Let me hold you—”
You jerked the blanket tighter.
“Don’t.”
His hands paused midair. “What? Why not?”
“I… I’m not feeling well,” you muttered, voice trembling.
Immediately, Jimin crouched beside the couch, his fingers brushing your forehead. “You’re freezing. Why is the apartment so cold, honey? Have you eaten? Are you sick?”
You flinched at his touch.
His brows drew tight. “Hey. What’s going on?”
The look in your eyes, a tortured mix of fear, guilt, and panic, sent alarm bells ringing down his spine. The hairs on his neck stood up like ice.
“Talk to me,” he whispered. “Why are you looking at me like that, baby?”
You swallowed thickly, tears already welling, bottom lip trembling.
“I’m sorry,” you said suddenly. “I’m so sorry, Jimin. I didn’t mean to—fuck—I didn’t mean for it to happen—”
His heart stopped.
“What happened?” he asked, voice cracking. “Why are you apologizing?”
You shook your head, rocking slightly under the blanket. “I don’t want you to be mad at me. Please don’t be mad. I swear I didn’t do it on purpose—”
“Hey, hey—breathe, baby,” Jimin said gently, kneeling now with both hands on the couch as he tried to see your face. “I’m not mad. I promise. Just tell me what’s wrong.”
“You can’t promise that!” you cried, eyes wide. “You don’t know what I did!”
He tried to smile, to keep the panic at bay. “Yah,” he said playfully, “Aegi-ah, why are you acting so weird? Just tell me what’s wrong, right now!”
“Don’t yell at me!” you snapped, voice breaking as the tears spilled over.
Jimin’s breath hitched. His expression sobering immediately.
“No—no, aegi-ah, I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Shh, don’t cry, please don’t cry, baby. Don’t cry—tell Jimin-ie what’s wrong, yeah? Whatever it is… we’ll figure it out. Together.”
He watched your lip tremble. Watched your hands clutch the edge of the blanket like a lifeline.
Then, with shaking fingers, you began to push it off. Your breathing was ragged as you shrugged out of your sweater. And beneath it, round, unmistakable and impossible to ignore was the soft, swollen curve of your belly.
Jimin stared.
Everything around him slowed to a whisper.
You were crying before you could speak, words tumbling out like stones.
“I didn’t know—I swear—I kept taking the pill and I didn’t miss a day. I—I double checked the window every time, but it still—it still happened. I didn’t want to trap you—I’m not trying to ruin your life, I swear, it’s just—do you know how low the failure rate is? It’s like 0.1%—but that’s still me, because of course it’s me—”
“Stop, baby,” Jimin whispered.
But you didn’t.
“I wasn’t—I wasn’t hiding it to be manipulative, I was scared, and I didn’t want to do this through a letter or video call, and you’ve been so stressed, and I know this isn’t what we planned—”
“Stop,” he said again, firmer this time.
He surged forward and gently wrapped you in his arms.
You froze.
Jimin buried his face in your neck, arms locking around you like a lifeline, and whispered, “You didn’t ruin anything. You didn’t fuck up. You didn’t trap me.”
You choked back another sob, fists clutching his shirt.
“I’m scared too,” he admitted softly, “but not because of the baby. I’m scared because you’ve been here… alone… carrying this without me.”
You broke.
And Jimin held you tighter.
“You’re not alone anymore, okay? I’m home. And I’m not going anywhere.”
—
You didn’t realize how long you’d been crying until your throat burned and your eyes felt raw.
The couch cushions had shifted beneath the weight of your grief and Jimin’s comfort, and now you were curled sideways into his chest with his arms around you like a shield. He rocked you without rhythm, just enough to soothe, thumb stroking slow circles against your side.
Your body trembled, and he didn’t let go.
“I hate this,” you whimpered against his shoulder, your voice thick and wrecked. “I’m sorry—I can’t stop crying. I’m trying. It’s just—fucking hormones.”
Jimin chuckled softly, lips brushing your hair. “You don’t have to explain. I’ve never been pregnant, but I’ve had to live with Jungkook during a breakup. I know a hormonal crisis when I see one.”
You snorted, wet and weakly, but the sound made him smile.
He kissed the crown of your head, his voice low. “When did you find out?”
You swallowed. “End of the first trimester. I kept… I kept thinking it was a stress thing. Then I started getting sick every morning. And… my smell sensitivity kicked in.”
Jimin hummed. “And the doctor?”
“They said based on the scans, it likely happened about six months ago.”
Jimin blinked.
Then his brows lifted.
“Wait—six months? You mean…”
You nodded, already burying your face again, your entire body overheating with embarrassment. “Yeah. During your last visit. That morning. On the couch.”
Jimin stared down at you, eyes wide.
And then he burst out laughing.
Your head snapped up. “What?”
He doubled over, wheezing through the laughter, eyes tearing up. “I knew it.”
“Knew what?!”
He wiped his eyes, still grinning. “We had this running bet in the barracks. Just something dumb to keep morale up. We were all guessing who was gonna come back home to a surprise baby or a panicked voicemail or a crying girlfriend on base leave.”
You blinked at him.
“And what?” you asked. “You lost the bet?”
“I didn’t bet on myself!” he howled, clutching his stomach. “I bet on Taehyung! Taehyung!”
You groaned, covering your face.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry, Jimin. I—”
“No,” he said quickly, firmly, cutting through your apology before it could root. “Stop that, baby. No more of that, okay?”
You sniffed, hands dropping slowly from your eyes.
Jimin cupped your face, brushing away the tear tracks with his thumbs. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You made a human with me. Us. You don’t get to apologize for that.”
You nodded, breath still shaky. “I was just… scared you’d be mad.”
He kissed your forehead. “I’m not mad. I’m overwhelmed, yeah. But not mad. Not even close.”
There was a moment of silence. Just the hum of the apartment and the background sound of the TV playing something long forgotten.
Then Jimin glanced down. “Can I…?” His hand hovered slightly above the curve of your stomach.
You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
He smiled, eyes soft and big as he placed both hands on your belly. Spreading his fingers wide, thumbs brushing gently along the swell. You watched his eyes go glassy, his mouth parting like a breath had just caught behind his heart.
“Hi,” he whispered, leaning down. “I’m Jimin-ie. I’m… your appa. Kind of new to the job, kind of scared. But I already love you, so much.”
He kissed your stomach. Once. Twice. Again.
“I’m gonna try really hard not to screw this up, okay?” he murmured, speaking to your skin. “I’m gonna be there. Every day. Every appointment. Every craving. Every weird hormonal meltdown.”
You let out a quiet laugh.
“I’ll help pick out the name, the crib, and paint the nursery. I’ll do the midnight bottles. The lullabies. All of it, honey.”
He looked up at you then, cheeks flushed, hands still gently cradling your belly.
“I’m all in.”
Your throat tightened, tears welling again—but this time, for a very different reason. You slid your fingers into his hair, tugging him up gently to kiss you.
And he kissed you like the promise he’d just made.Like a man finally home and finally whole.
—
The kiss deepened before either of you really noticed.
What began as a thank you, a you’re home now kiss, softened with relief and tears, slowly gave way to something hotter, heavier. Your fingers curled tighter in his hair. Jimin’s hands slid from your belly to your waist, gripping like he needed to pull you closer.
You shifted forward until your knees straddled his thighs on the couch, and Jimin hissed beneath you, like he was trying to remember how to breathe.
It hit him then, all at once.
You were pregnant.
You were pregnant.
With his baby.
His breath caught as his hands slipped over the gentle curve of your stomach again, slower this time, more intentional.
He got you like this.
He did this.
You were swollen and round and glowing and gorgeous and his, and he hadn’t seen you in half a year, and now—
“Shit,” Jimin breathed, hips twitching beneath you as the blood in his veins surged south. “Baby… fuck. You’re carrying my baby.”
You flushed, squirming a little on his lap.
“And you’re so sexy,” he murmured, mouth dragging along your jaw, your neck. “You’re perfect. You’ve always been perfect, but like this—fuck, I can’t—”
He moaned again, hard and straining beneath you now, one hand rubbing slow circles over the small of your back as the other gripped your thigh.
“I made this,” he said in disbelief, voice turning hazy. “We made this. And right here, just like this, is how it happened.”
He tilted his head, nuzzling your neck as he pulled you down snug against the outline of his cock.
“Right here on this couch,” he whispered against your skin, grinding up slowly. “We’re in the same position as when I knocked you up.”
You groaned and slapped his chest lightly. “Don’t say it like that. And don’t talk to the baby about sex right before sex!”
Jimin cracked up, his laugh warm and breathless against your shoulder. “Already a bossy momma,” he teased, licking a slow stripe along your throat.
You squirmed again. “Jimin—”
His breath hitched, and he moaned again at the word. “God, momma,” he whispered, hands smoothing up your back, “you don’t even know what that’s doing to me.”
His tone dropped, growing deeper, hungrier, and you felt it. The shift. The heat. The effect that word had on him. The knowledge that you’d created a life.
His hands were trembling now, moving beneath your shirt slowly.
“Can I take this off, honey?” he asked, nodding to the tshirt swallowing you whole. “I wanna see you. Wanna see what’s mine.”
You nodded.
Jimin swallowed, then lifted the shirt carefully. You helped him tug it over your head, and the second it was off, he went still.
You weren’t wearing a bra.
Your breasts were heavier than he remembered, full and flushed and on display for him, your nipples peaked from the chill of the room and the ache of your arousal.
Jimin’s eyes darkened.
“Oh fuck,” he moaned. “You’re so beautiful.”
He cupped your breasts gently, thumbs brushing over your nipples as you gasped softly.
“Does this feel okay?” he asked, immediately concerned.
You nodded quickly. “Yes—Yeah, it actually feels really good.”
“Yeah?” he said, kissing the top of your chest. “Can I…?”
You nodded again, breath stuttering as his lips wrapped around your nipple, tongue swirling slowly, hand splayed against the curve of your back for support. He moaned at the taste of your skin, kissing and suckling with soft hunger, flicking his tongue just right.
You sighed and rolled your hips, your cunt slick and throbbing, grinding right over the thick, hard press of his cock.
Jimin groaned—mouth still on your chest—his hands guiding your hips in a rhythm that made him tremble. Even now, with you straddling his thighs, bare from the waist up and glowing with heat and flushed emotion, Jimin moved like you were the most fragile, exquisite thing he’d ever laid hands on.
He couldn’t stop touching you.
“You feel so good like this,” he murmured. “So warm. So soft. Fuck, I want you, baby. I need you.”
You moaned, rocking your hips with more force.
“You’re sure?” he asked, hands cradling your hips. “You feel okay?”
You nodded, breath catching as you rocked against his lap again. “I’m okay. I want this, Jimin.”
He pressed a kiss to your sternum. “Okay, I’ll be careful with you, promise.”
He tugged his fatigues open, button by button, and shoved them down just far enough to free his cock, his boxer briefs dragged down with them. He hissed softly as the fabric peeled away to reveal him already painfully hard. Flushed tip wet, the whole length throbbing from the weight of wanting you.
But the moment your hips lifted, lining yourself up above him, his breath caught for another reason entirely.
He realized something.
You weren’t wearing anything else.
His eyes flicked up, wide. “You’re not wearing any panties.”
You shook your head, embarrassed and breathless. “Anything clingy is my worst enemy right now. Most of them don’t fit anyway.”
Jimin moaned like you’d just told him the sky was on fire.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered.
And then slowly, so slowly, he guided you down.
The head of his cock pressed at your entrance, and the second your slick walls wrapped around him, Jimin’s jaw dropped open in a silent gasp.
“Fucking hell—”
You whimpered above him, trembling, your body shuddering from the stretch and pressure. Even with how wet you were—soaked, he realized—your walls gripped him like they’d been missing him as much as the rest of you had.
You sank down inch by inch, both of you panting, your hands braced on his chest, his fingertips digging into your hips like he was anchoring himself to reality.
Once he was fully inside, Jimin couldn’t breathe.
“Oh, honey,” he moaned. “I’m not gonna last. I swear to God, if you move—”
You did.
You rolled your hips slowly, moaning as your oversensitive body responded instantly. Every clench, every drag of his cock along your inner walls making your voice break with pleasure.
“Jimin—oh fuck—it’s so much.”
He nodded frantically, head lolling back against the cushions. “You’re so fucking soft. So wet—Jesus, baby—how are you this tight?”
You whimpered again, thighs trembling.
“I don’t know—everything’s just so sensitive now.”
And he could tell.
The way your hips moved in slow, quivering circles. The way your walls pulsed around him with every breath. The way you clenched hard at the smallest shift of his body.
Jimin gritted his teeth, trying not to thrust up. Trying to let you ride him, slow and safe, even as his cock throbbed like it couldn’t handle another second untouched.
“You’re doing so good,” he rasped, hands sliding up your sides, cupping your heavy breasts again. “Let me take care of these, yeah?”
You nodded, flushed and already falling apart.
He leaned in, suckling your nipples with devotion. His tongue teasing just enough to send a new wave of moans tumbling from your lips. He alternated between your breasts, worshipping your body with kisses, murmurs, and trembling hands.
“You look so beautiful like this,” he whispered. “Full of me. Taking me like you need it.”
Your hips stuttered.
“I do,” you gasped. “I do need it—”
And then it hit.
Your orgasm tore through you without warning, walls fluttering around him, your body tensing up, hands flying to circle his shoulders as you cried out.
Jimin’s eyes flew open. “Holy shit—”
The feeling of your orgasm was too much.
Too tight.
Too wet.
He growled low in his throat, trying—fighting—to hold back, but the way you squeezed him, the way your body milked him for everything he had…
“I can’t—fuck, I can’t—”
He moaned your name like a prayer and came hard, hips jerking up once, twice, as his cock throbbed deep inside you, his cum spilling into your fluttering heat.
He buried his face in your neck, arms wrapped around you like he’d fall apart without the anchor.
“Fuck,” he panted. “You’re incredible, baby.”
You trembled in his arms, still catching your breath, still half floating.
—
Jimin was still buried deep inside you, your body soft and trembling in his arms, the air thick with sex and affection. But even after coming that hard, he didn’t want to let go.
Didn’t want to pull out.
Didn’t want to be anywhere but right here.
Instead, he wrapped his arms under your thighs and lifted you.
“Jimin—” you gasped, clinging to his shoulders. “You’re still—!”
“I know,” he whispered, voice thick. “I can’t help it. I want you again.”
He stood, carefully, adjusting your weight against him, keeping your bodies connected as he walked—slow, steady steps down the hallway toward the bedroom. His cock throbbed inside you with each step, and you clung to him, laughing and moaning as the movement pushed you deeper onto him.
“Still so full,” he panted, voice shaking with love and need. “Still so fucking perfect.”
By the time he stepped into the bedroom, both of you were flushed and breathless. He lowered you gently onto the bed, his hands never leaving your body, kissing you softly as he finally slipped out of you.
“Stay right there,” he whispered.
He stood and stripped the rest of the way down—tugging his fatigues off with eager hands, discarding the last of his clothing until he was bare.
Then he looked at you. And froze.
You were lying on your back, hair splayed across the pillow, lips kiss bruised and cheeks flushed. Completely naked and bared to him, and you were glowing, round and full with the life he gave you.
Stretch marks kissed your hips and lower belly, silver and gold under the soft light. You moved to cover them with trembling fingers, shame flickering in your eyes.
“Don’t,” Jimin said, voice low.
“I just… they’re not—pretty,” you whispered. “I didn’t want you to see—”
“Don’t.” His voice cracked.
He crawled onto the bed with quiet urgency, kneeling between your legs, his eyes wide with awe. “Are you serious? These?” His fingertips traced the soft curves of your belly and hips. “These are from me. These are from our baby. These are fucking beautiful.”
You blinked up at him, lip trembling, tears threatening again.
Jimin lowered himself, mouth to your belly, kissing every line, every mark, every soft place that had shifted and stretched.
“I love this body,” he murmured between kisses. “I love how it changed. I love how it knows how to carry something so precious. You’re beautiful. You’re amazing.”
He kissed lower—down to your thighs, your hips, then between your legs, licking up your slit as you moaned and arched into his mouth.
“Let me show you,” he whispered.
And then he was sucking your clit.
His tongue worked in soft flicks, his lips wrapping around your swollen clit with perfect pressure as two fingers slid slowly inside you, curling up and stroking until your entire body shook.
“Jimin—fuck—I’m gonna—”
“I’ve got you, honey,” he murmured. “Let it happen.”
And then…something definitely happened.
Your back arched. Your thighs clenched around his head. You screamed, sobbing his name as your release gushed from you, soaking his chin and the sheets below.
You trembled in disbelief, gasping for breath.
Jimin sat up slowly, licking his lips, wide eyed and flushed.
“Holy shit,” he breathed. “You’ve never—?”
You shook your head.
He grinned, biting his lip. “Okay. Well. We’re doing that again.”
You laughed breathlessly, still shaking, and he leaned over to kiss you slowly and messily before positioning himself between your thighs.
“Let me in again, baby,” he whispered. “Let me love you again.”
He guided himself to your entrance, pausing only to press a soft kiss to your belly.
Then he slid in.
This time was different. This time he knew your body again. Knew your rhythm. Knew what felt good.
He rocked into you slow, holding himself up on trembling arms, watching every expression flicker across your face. He leaned down to kiss your cheek, your lips, your chin—his hands roaming up to cup your breasts again, rubbing gentle circles over your sensitive nipples as you moaned into his mouth.
“Still okay?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” you gasped. “More than okay.”
He moved a little deeper, a little faster.
Your hands gripped his waist, your legs curling around his hips as he built the rhythm, every stroke sending sparks across your skin.
“I can’t believe I get to do this,” he whispered. “I can’t believe this is mine. You. Our baby. This life.”
You moaned again, hips rolling to meet his.
He picked up the pace. Not quite rough, but deeper now. His pelvis grinding into your clit just right as your body trembled beneath him.
When you came again it was quieter this time, whimpering into his neck as you clung to him, your pussy pulsing around his cock.
Jimin growled against your shoulder, hips stuttering.
“That’s it,” he gasped. “Milk my cock—come on, baby—fuck, you feel so good—”
And then he followed your lead, buried to the hilt, cumming inside you with a soft, broken moan, his whole body shaking as he collapsed into your arms.
After the final tremble passed through your body, Jimin didn’t move for a while.
He stayed there—curled around you, one hand on your thigh, the other gently brushing the curve of your belly, his cheek resting just below your breast, lips parted against your skin.
His cock had softened, his heart hadn’t. It overflowed with feeling.
You both lay wrapped in the quiet for long minutes, breathing together, heat lingering like the final note of a song that neither of you wanted to end.
But then he stirred.
He kissed your sternum and whispered, “I’ll be right back,” before gently sliding from the bed. You whined softly, shivering when the air hit your skin, and he tugged the comforter up around your shoulders before jogging to the bathroom.
When he returned, his hands were full—warm glass of water, a clean washcloth, and a soft towel. He knelt beside the bed, mindfully parting your thighs with delicate fingers, and began to clean you up with careful movements.
You flinched slightly, still sore, oversensitive, and Jimin paused immediately.
“Sorry,” he whispered, “I’ll be extra gentle.”
You looked down at him, lips curling faintly. “Jimin, I’m not made of glass.”
He gave you a look—half scandalized, half adoring.
“You’re not made of glass,” he echoed, carefully blotting between your thighs, “but you’re carrying very precious cargo.”
You rolled your eyes, cheeks warming. “You’re going to make me cry again.”
“Too late,” he said, setting the cloth aside and crawling back into bed beside you. He wrapped an arm under your shoulders, the other smoothing across your belly like instinct. “It’s my turn, anyway.”
You snuggled closer, forehead pressed to his temple as he pressed soft kisses to your cheek, your jaw, your lips, each one slower and more tender than the last.
He sighed, brushing his thumb across the slope of your stomach. “Gotta take care of my girls.”
You blinked.
Your head tilted.
“Did I… already tell you the sex?”
Jimin froze.
He looked up slowly.
“…No.”
You raised a brow.
He sat back, blinking in disbelief. “Wait. Wait.”
You laughed, wide eyed. “Jimin—”
“It is a girl?!”
You bit your lip and nodded.
And Jimin collapsed beside you. His face buried in your stomach, arms curled tightly around your waist, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.
You ran your fingers through his hair as he cried.
“Oh my God,” he whispered against your skin. “A girl. I have a daughter.”
He lifted his face and kissed your belly. Once. Twice. Over and over.
Then he pressed his cheek against your bump and whispered, “Hi, little cherry blossom.”
You blinked, heart stuttering. “Cherry blossom?”
“That’s what she is,” he said, eyes glassy. “Beautiful, and soft, and new.”
You swallowed thickly, wiping the tears from his cheeks. “You’re going to be such a good dad.”
He smiled, radiant and trembling. “I already feel like one.”
You nodded, thumb brushing under his eye. “You already are.”
And in the quiet that followed, Jimin curled around you again. His lips pressed to your belly, whispering soft promises to his little girl as you drifted to sleep with his love surrounding you like a fortress of love.
—
The apartment smelled like roasted sesame oil and toasted seaweed the moment Jimin opened the door.
It was almost midnight.
Practice had run late again—dance rehearsals dragging into vocal drills, vocal drills into a spontaneous team meeting about camera blocking and choreography marks.
He was exhausted, his hoodie clinging to his neck with sweat, shoes dragging a little more than usual.
But he still made the detour.
Because it had been two days.
And his baby, his girls, deserved their chicken.
“I’m home,” he called gently, pushing the door shut with his foot as he balanced the steaming container in both hands.
He spotted you immediately.
You were perched at the breakfast bar in one of his oversized tees. Looking achingly soft, stretched over your belly, with your hair swept into a messy bun on top of your head. A pair of chopsticks in your hand, a spoon in the other. A cup of barley water shimmered in the low kitchen lighting.
Your eyes lit up when you saw him.
“I knew it,” you said, grinning. “I could smell it down the hall.”
Jimin beamed. “One rotisserie chicken for milady,” he declared, setting it down in front of you with a dramatic flourish.
You laughed, already pulling the container open, the rich, savory aroma spilling into the kitchen like a hug.
“Smells amazing,” you murmured, already picking through the soft, steaming meat.
Jimin leaned over and kissed your temple. “It better. This place has your order memorized now. Chicken stuffed with garlic rice, extra drippings, sesame glaze on the side.”
You hummed happily, mouth already full, as Jimin stood behind you with his hands gently stroking your belly.
“Hi, Blossom,” he whispered into the crown of your head, smiling at the swell of your stomach. “Daddy brought your favorite.”
Your belly shifted slightly, a subtle roll just under his palm.
“Oh—!” Jimin gasped, eyes lighting up. “Was that a ‘thank you’?”
You snorted through your food. “Either that or she’s fighting me for the last thigh.”
He chuckled, thumb tracing slow circles over your bump as he continued speaking to her like she could understand every word.
“She’s been so active lately,” he said softly. “Think she’s excited?”
“She better not get too excited,” you muttered, spooning more rice onto your plate. “She still has a few days on the clock.”
Jimin smiled, stepping back around the bar to pull out the stool beside you. He flopped into it with a quiet groan, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Practice was brutal today,” he said, voice dipping into that familiar, raspy exhaustion. “We were polishing the floor with our sweat by the end of it. Tae almost passed out doing the chorus for the sixth time.”
You reached over, brushing your knuckles along his cheek affectionately. “You’re doing amazing, though.”
He smiled, watching you eat. “Can’t lie. I’m excited about this comeback. It feels… good. Different. Like we’re really starting fresh.”
He rubbed your belly again, tone softening. “It feels like everything’s starting over.”
You nodded, chewing slowly, eyes warm.
And then it hit. A tight, low ache clenched across your belly, enough to pull a small gasp from your lips as your spoon clattered to the plate.
Jimin was up in a second.
“What was that?” he blurted. “Was that it? Are we—? Should I get the bag? Where’s your charger? Do we need to call—?”
“Jimin.”
He stopped, wide eyed, practically vibrating with panic.
You exhaled slowly, pressing your palm to your bump. “It’s just a Braxton Hicks. Not the real thing.”
“But—but how do you know—?”
You gave him a look.
He swallowed, sitting down slowly, still tense as he reached out to feel your belly again.
You grabbed his hand and kissed the back of it.
“I’ll know when it’s time.”
Jimin nodded slowly, but his gaze stayed fixed to your belly like he was waiting for it to glow or send up smoke signals.
You smirked. “I promise you won’t miss it.”
“I just…” He exhaled, rubbing your stomach gently. “I don’t want to mess anything up. I want to be ready.”
“You are,” you said, voice soft and sure. “You already are.”
He leaned in and kissed you, thumb brushing just beneath your navel.
“Still,” he murmured. “Next contraction, I’m putting on my shoes.”
—
The room was too quiet.
Too full of everything that had just happened and somehow, impossibly, not enough.
Then came the cry.
High. Piercing. Clear as glass.
A wail so loud and sharp it rang off the walls, and for a split second, Jimin forgot to breathe. Then the doctor laughed gently and said, “She’s got your lungs, dad.”
And just like that, his knees gave out.
He barely registered the slick weight of her being placed on your chest. She was red and warm and still covered in the traces of you, tiny arms flailing as she cried out with pure, unfiltered life.
You gasped, overwhelmed, arms trembling as you reached to cradle her. She fit like nothing had ever fit before. Like she belonged right there, a heartbeat echo of your own.
And Jimin…sobbed.
Collapsed against the edge of the bed, his hand covering his mouth, the other pressed against the fragile, damp curve of his daughter’s tiny back.
“Oh my God,” he choked. “Oh my God, honey, you did it—you did it. You’re amazing. You’re incredible.”
You turned your face, damp with sweat and tears, toward him and he kissed your temple again and again, crying into your skin.
“You gave her to me,” he whispered. “You gave me our daughter. I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that.”
She whimpered again, tiny voice softening, cries turning to little breathy hiccups as Jimin stroked his fingers down her back with infinite care.
“Hey,” he whispered, brushing the damp curls on her tiny head. “Hi, blossom.”
You inhaled shakily, eyes wide as you looked down at her. “Jimin…”
“I know,” he whispered.
His thumb swept across the arch of her tiny back, eyes shining with tears as he leaned in, lips ghosting just over her head.
“Hi, Jihyun,” he whispered, saying it aloud for the first time. “My little cherry blossom. Jihyun-ah. Appa’s here.”
Her whimpers softened again, her breathing growing slower and steadier, the sound of his voice was already something familiar. Like something she’d been waiting to hear on the outside.
Jimin turned to you, blinking fast through tears. “She’s here. She’s really here. You did so well, baby—God, you did so well.”
You smiled through the haze of exhaustion, cheeks wet with tears, your chest still heaving with disbelief and joy. “She’s perfect.”
“Just like her mom,” he whispered, kissing you again on your forehead, your temple, the cheek, anywhere he could reach. “I’m so proud of you.”
The nurse approached then, voice gentle. “We’ll just take her for a moment to clean her up and check her vitals, okay? You’ll have her back soon.”
You nodded reluctantly, and Jimin hovered as they carefully lifted Jihyun from your chest. He pressed one last kiss to her head before she was cradled into the nurse’s arms and carried to the bassinet just across the room.
Both of you watched.
You, eyes wide, mouth parted in wonder.
Jimin, still crying, one hand clutching yours tightly while the other wiped at his soaked cheeks.
“She’s so small,” he whispered, voice cracking.
“And so loud,” you added, grinning weakly.
“She’s got her father’s vocal cords,” the nurse teased, smiling over her shoulder.
Jimin let out a laugh that crumbled into another sob.
You turned to him, reaching for his cheek. “Jimin, take photos. Videos. We have to send them to the guys—and our parents.”
He nodded, fumbling for his phone with shaking hands.
“I want to remember this forever,” you added, voice soft. “I want her to see how much we loved her from the very beginning.”
Jimin lifted the phone, but before he could snap the photo, he looked at you again.
And it hit him all over again.
The woman he loved, glowing and flushed, tears in your eyes and a proud, tired smile on your lips. His daughter, just feet away, healthy and real and breathing.
His heart couldn’t hold it.
So he whispered, “Thank you,” one more time.
And took the picture with trembling hands and love overflowing.
Summary: After Yn, Landos girlfriend, accidentally gets pregnant, Lando wants nothing to do with the baby. Carlos, the hero, appears and safes the day.
Attention: unplanned pregnancy
The apartment smelled like takeout and cold coffee, the kind of smell that clung to the air after too many late nights and too little rest. Yn sat on the edge of the couch, knees pulled to her chest, staring at the muted television without really seeing it. Her fingers kept twisting together, nails pressing half-moons into her skin.
The pregnancy test was hidden in the pocket of her hoodie.
She had taken it an hour earlier, locking herself in the bathroom, sitting on the cold tile floor while the seconds passed far too slowly. When the result appeared, clear and undeniable, she had laughed once—short and breathless—before bursting into tears.
She wasn’t scared of being pregnant.
She was scared of telling him.
The front door opened, and the familiar sound of keys dropping into the bowl made her heart jump.
“Hey,” Lando called out, voice tired but light. “You still awake?”
“In here,” she answered, her throat tight.
He walked into the living room, hair messy, hoodie still bearing the faint smell of the simulator room. He smiled when he saw her, leaning down to kiss her forehead.
“Sorry I’m late. The run data was a mess, and—”
“Lando,” she interrupted softly.
He paused, straightening. “What’s wrong?”
Her hands shook as she reached into her pocket and pulled out the test, holding it out to him.
For a moment, he just stared at it, brows knitting together.
“What is this?” he asked.
She swallowed hard. “I’m pregnant.”
The room went quiet.
Not peaceful quiet. Heavy quiet. The kind that presses down on your chest until it’s hard to breathe.
He blinked once. Twice. Then he laughed, a sharp sound that made her flinch.
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s not funny, Yn.”
“I’m not trying to be funny.”
His smile vanished. “No. No, this—this can’t be happening.”
She stood slowly, heart pounding. “I know it’s unexpected, but we’ve been together for years. We can figure this out. We always do.”
He turned away from her, running a hand through his hair. “Do you have any idea what season this is?”
She nodded quickly. “I know how important this year is for you. I know what you’re fighting for.”
“Then how could you let this happen?”
The words hit her like ice water.
“Let this happen?” she repeated, voice barely above a whisper.
“This is the worst timing,” he snapped. “I can’t need a baby right now. I can’t afford distractions. I’m finally in a position to win the championship.”
Her eyes burned. “I didn’t plan this.”
“You’re the one who gets pregnant,” he shot back. “This is on you.”
Something inside her broke.
“My fault,” she said hollowly. “So that’s it?”
He didn’t answer right away. That silence said enough.
“I came to you because I thought you’d support me,” she said, tears spilling over. “Because I thought you loved me.”
“I do love you,” he said quickly, but his voice lacked conviction. “But this… this ruins everything.”
That was the moment she knew.
She grabbed her jacket, hands trembling. “I’m done listening to this.”
“Yn, wait—”
She opened the door. “If you don’t want the baby, then I don’t want you.”
And she left.
The night air outside was cold, biting at her cheeks as she walked without direction, tears blurring the streetlights. Her chest hurt, each breath sharp and uneven. She didn’t know where she was going until she pushed open the door of a small café a few blocks away, warmth and the smell of fresh coffee wrapping around her like a blanket.
She took two steps inside and walked straight into someone.
“Oh—sorry,” a familiar voice said.
She looked up, stunned. “Carlos?”
He frowned immediately, concern flooding his face. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
She tried to answer, but the words collapsed into sobs.
Carlos didn’t hesitate. He guided her to a table, handed her a napkin, and waited, patient and quiet, until she could breathe again.
“What happened?” he asked gently.
Piece by piece, she told him everything. The test. The fight. The words that still echoed in her head.
Carlos’s jaw tightened with every sentence.
“He said it’s your fault?” he asked, anger sharp in his voice.
She nodded. “He doesn’t want the baby.”
Carlos leaned back, hands clenched. “How dare he.”
She stared down at the table. “I don’t know where to go.”
“You come with me,” Carlos said immediately. “You’ll stay at my place.”
She hesitated. “Just for a few weeks.”
“As long as you need,” he replied.
Moving in with Carlos felt strange at first. Temporary. Like she was holding her breath, waiting for the ground to shift beneath her.
But Carlos made space for her without ever making her feel like she was intruding.
When nausea hit in the mornings, he appeared with ginger tea and crackers.
When she cried at random, overwhelmed and exhausted, he sat beside her, never rushing her tears.
When nightmares woke her in the middle of the night, shaking and gasping, he was there in the hallway, voice low and steady.
“You’re safe,” he would say. “I’ve got you.”
Weeks turned into months.
The bump became visible, her body changing in ways that felt both miraculous and terrifying. One evening, she felt a sharp flutter and grabbed Carlos’s arm.
“Did you feel that?” she asked breathlessly.
He placed his hand gently on her stomach, eyes wide when the kick came again.
“He’s strong,” Carlos whispered, awe in his voice.
Something shifted then.
It wasn’t sudden or dramatic. It was quiet. Slow. Built in shared breakfasts, late-night talks, soft laughter over burnt dinners. Built in the way Carlos always made sure she ate, the way he instinctively reached for her when crossing the street, the way he spoke to her belly when he thought she was asleep.
One night, sitting on the couch, Yn finally said it. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”
Carlos didn’t smile. He didn’t joke. He just took her hand.
“I already am,” he admitted softly.
The birth was long and exhausting, pain blurring into something overwhelming. Carlos never left her side, his hand steady in hers.
“Breathe with me,” he murmured. “You’re doing amazing.”
When their son finally cried, Carlos broke down completely.
“He’s perfect,” Yn whispered, tears streaming down her face.
They named him David.
Life after that was messy and beautiful and real.
The nights blurred together at first. Feedings that felt endless. Crying that made Yn doubt herself and then, minutes later, laugh in disbelief at how much she loved this tiny human. Carlos learned quickly—how to warm bottles just right, how to walk David up and down the hallway until his cries softened into hiccups, how to let Yn sleep while he took over without ever making her feel guilty for it.
They argued sometimes. About who was more tired. About whether the baby was too cold or too warm. About nothing, really. And then they apologized, because neither of them wanted silence between them anymore.
Carlos kissed her forehead every morning before leaving. He kissed her temple when she cried from exhaustion. He kissed her shoulder when she fed David in the quiet hours before dawn. It wasn’t grand. It was constant.
That was how love settled in.
Months later, the paddock felt louder than Yn remembered. Engines screamed in the distance, people rushed past, voices overlapping in a familiar chaos. David slept in the stroller, bundled up and blissfully unaware of the world he’d been born into.
Carlos walked beside her, one hand on the stroller, the other resting protectively against her back. It wasn’t possessive. It was instinct.
“You okay?” he asked.
She nodded, smiling softly. “Yeah. I am.”
They stopped near the hospitality area, Carlos leaning down to adjust the blanket over David’s face. Yn watched him, heart full in a way that still surprised her sometimes.
That was when she felt it.
The pause in the air. The shift.
She looked up—and saw Lando.
He stood a few meters away, still in team gear, trophy ceremony long finished. There was noise all around him, but he looked detached from it, like he was underwater.
His eyes were fixed on them.
On the stroller.
On Carlos’s hand brushing Yn’s back.
On the way she leaned into Carlos without thinking.
Lando’s chest tightened. He had imagined this moment before—running into her, maybe exchanging awkward words, maybe pretending everything was fine. He had imagined anger. Bitterness.
He hadn’t imagined this.
Yn looked happy.
Not performatively happy. Not smiling-for-the-cameras happy. She looked… settled. Grounded. Like someone who had been held through the hardest parts and come out stronger.
Carlos straightened and kissed her. It was brief. Familiar. The kind of kiss you don’t think twice about.
Something in Lando’s chest collapsed.
He noticed the way Carlos spoke quietly to the stroller, noticed how Yn laughed under her breath at whatever he said. He noticed how the stroller rocked gently as Carlos nudged it with his foot, practiced, automatic.
That could have been him.
The thought hit hard and useless.
He remembered the night she’d stood in their apartment, hands shaking, asking him to be her partner.
He remembered the words he’d chosen instead.
The timing is horrible.
I can’t need a baby right now.
It’s your fault.
The championship trophy suddenly felt heavier than it ever had.
Yn turned then, finally seeing him.
Their eyes met.
For a split second, Lando hoped—stupidly—that she might look sad. Or angry. Or nostalgic.
She didn’t.
She looked calm.
She gave him a small nod. Polite. Distant. Final.
And then she turned back to Carlos.
“David’s awake,” she said softly.
Carlos leaned over the stroller, smiling immediately. “Hey, campeón.”
A tiny sound came from under the blanket. A soft, unmistakable baby noise.
Lando’s throat closed.
That was the sound of a life he would never be part of.
He watched as Carlos lifted David carefully, cradling him with practiced ease. Yn adjusted the blanket, her hands confident, loving. The three of them fit together naturally, like pieces that had always belonged.
Lando stood there as they walked away, swallowed by the paddock crowd.
People congratulated him. Cameras flashed. Someone clapped him on the shoulder.
He smiled when expected.
But inside, the realization settled fully, painfully clear.
Hey I just met you and this is crazy but I'm pregnant and it's your ba-- oh you're married.
Fuck.
That modern AU (featuring polyamory and trans!Rumi) where Zoey and Rumi are stuck working together, both away from where they normally live now staying in air B&B's and hotels while they're on a project. It's how they meet.
Where hook ups happen and it's just casual sex blowing off steam after work here and there. No feelings, nope none at all that's not happening. Rumi back to the city she normally lives in and it's fine.
Then oops um unplanned pregnancy and terribly timed realization of feelings, Zoey going to confess to both feelings and pregnancy, but it's not Rumi who opens the door at her rental it's uh her wife? Her really very amazingly gorgeous wife who's holding their toddler who might just be the most adorable toddler Zoey's ever seen in her life.
Fuck.
Okay apparently she missed some information here that she learns rapidly about open relationships as even Mira chastises Rumi for not talking through EVERYTHING before starting anything with anyone and offers Zoey something to drink.
Zoey, deciding the right and proper good thing to do with all of this is to tell the truth to just hide the fact she's pregnant for now, lie through her teeth and go about her life. It's not like they'll all be in the same town for long right?
Right.
And even if they DO happen to be in the same place for a long time and even if she IS falling head over heels for both of them and they are all hanging out together all the time it's not like it MEANS anything. She's just a-- a friends with benefits duh. Maybe just a normal friend.
There's absolutely no way they might feel the same way about her, that'd be crazy.
Her telling anyone anything about paternity's just going to ruin everyone's life so it's just her and the bat ("I can nickname my kid what I want. And it's currently hanging upside down in the dark for the next few months so bat.") for the foreseeable future and that's totally gonna kill her break her heart be okay.
Featuring idiots who don't do math and it genuinely does not occur to Rumi (who is grouchy, and sulky, and possessive as fuck) that Zoey's baby might be hers cause duh they used protection and it was just 'casual' so that means Zoey probably dated other people and all.
Mira, coming up with excuses to hang around their job, get Zoey over to their place, spend any time at all with Zoey because oh shit no she's cute, and funny.
(Including volunteering handmedowns and pregnancy advice with only a little less jealousy than Rumi shows.)
Rumi, about two steps away from punching the next male presenting person to smile at Zoey or be smiled at by Zoey because she's jealous (of herself unknowingly) and her 15 step plan to convince Zoey into a triad is apparently not working damn it.
Optionally, a third party being the one to do the math first. Like Celine, at toddler's birthday party, working out 1) when Rumi and Zoey met and 2) just when Zoey's due. but NOT realizing Rumi and Mira have no fucking clue.
[Truly though you could switch out Zoey and Rumi role wise and it'd still work in the best way because they're both just that level of thinking that they're too much or not loved 'in that way' when they are and overthinking the little details while not seeing the big picture. Mira's too aware to just 'yeah I'm hiding who's baby this is' about things. She's gotta be our smart one.]
CW: 18+ MDNI; language; smut [unprotected p in v] [pull-out method]; unplanned/"secret" pregnancy, misunderstandings, break-up
WC: 3.3K
"I love you so fucking much, Tea." You whimper as Travis bucks into you, his mouth busily leaving hickeys all along the column of your throat while the outline of his throbbing cock beneath his baggy jeans slots perfectly between your legs.
The backseat of his mom's car didn't afford much space, but it was private, which was a luxury neither of you often had. Between his mom at their place, your parents and younger brother at yours, and the huge gang of friends you guys shared and were always hanging around with, it was usually a madhouse. Most outings were group or family affairs, but right now, in the backseat of Travis' mom's Trans Am way past midnight on a Thursday, you two had managed to find yourselves a little slice of heaven.
"God, I love you, baby." He utters, muffled by your sweat-slicked skin. "Can I fuck you, please?"
"D'you have a condom in here?" You whimper breathlessly.
He goes still for a moment, thinking. Then, defeated, he nuzzles deeper into your neck, licking behind your ear and shaking his head no. Your eyes flicker shut as he works the sensitive skin with his tongue, moving to nibble on the shell of your ear as he continues to grind over your center with nothing but a cheap pair of yoga pants to ease the friction.
The tension and heat in your core is growing explosive, and eventually you just can't take it anymore. Fingers and tongues aren't going to scratch this itch.
"Just pull out, 'kay?"
His beautiful, soft, hazel eyes blow wide, scanning your face in adoration and gratitude. He nods eagerly, tugging his jeans down past his hips and you slip your pants off with the space he's left you.
"I will, baby. Promise."
And he tries to keep it, he really does. It's just definitely one of those things that are easier said than done.
•••
3 ½ Weeks Later
"Hey, grab a Sprite and some Pepto for my girl. She's been puking all night, think our takeout musta fucked her up real bad."
His pal Davy nods absently, not intending on getting either of those things.
"Yeah, man, whatever. Just keep the car running, I'll be in and out in two seconds. Don't you ditch me, Teacake."
Travis scowls at him incredulously, offended that his friend would think he'd just drop him off at the convenience store, ask him to buy shit for his girlfriend, then what, just drive off and leave him?
"Nah, I'll be here. I'll pay you for the stuff too, we'll be square."
"Yeah, yeah. Remember, in and out. Two seconds?"
What, did he want him to time him or something? Travis just nods slowly, idly flipping through the radio stations as Davy runs inside. His phone pings in his hoodie pocket, and when he opens it he sees a selfie of you hugging the baby-blue porcelain toilet in your new shared apartment.
You'd only just been living together for a week or so, but it's been more than either of you could have ever hoped for. The only major buzzkill thus far was this killer stomach bug you seemed to have contracted. You chalk it up to the beef vindaloo you had last night, but you've been chained to this bowl for the last three hours straight and it's getting old.
Travis smiles fondly at the picture, his brows knitting together pitifully at the little pout on your face and the thumbs-down you were giving the camera.
that good huh?
i think i mite actually be dying
wait 4 real?
no but still
got Davy grabbing u sum stuff. b home soon bb
:* love u
Just as he started to type it back to you, Davy barrels through the passenger door with an armful of cash and cigarettes, screaming at Travis to "FUCKING FLOOR IT".
•••
Despite Teacake's pleading to the judge, he still gives him eighteen months in Elsworth Prison for being the unwitting getaway driver. You'd both been hoping he'd take it easy on him, but it seems that Travis Meacham's luck well has run dry.
The courtroom officers guide Travis towards the side doors by the elbows, his hands already cuffed behind his back.
You scurry to meet them there, behind the barricade of course, quickly swiping away the tears streaming down your cheeks. The smile you give him is forced, but you don't want him to feel any more frightened than you can tell he already is.
"S'okay, Tea. I'll come see ya, I'll come soon as I can. Hang in there, 'kay?"
"I'm sorry, baby." His voice cracks, his eyes growing glassy as he drinks in the curve of your face.
Your attention flicks between the two officers, your face twisting in desperation.
"Please," you beg, "can I give him a quick kiss before he goes?"
The younger one stiffens up, letting his superior be the one to answer.
"Sorry, Miss. No physical contact with the inmates permitted."
The breath escapes your lungs in a sob, and you blow him a kiss anyway. He bites at the air, acting as if he swallowed your kiss just to make you laugh. It doesn't really do the trick, but you chuckle dryly anyway to make him feel better.
Eighteen months. A year and a fucking half apart from one another. Maybe slightly less for good behavior, but not much.
When the doors swing shut, it's like all the light and air are sucked right out of the room with him. Suddenly you feel numb, empty, and so very alone. You make your way to your apartment, wondering how you were going to manage to keep up the rent by yourself now.
You'd figure it out, though. For him. Travis would eventually need a place to come home to, so you load the dishwasher, do the laundry, rearrange the pantry three times, and half-watch the TV until from sheer exhaustion you fall asleep on the couch, wrapped in one of Travis' sweatshirts because you could pretend for a minute he was the one holding you, and not just clothes that smelled like him.
•••
You call him first thing in the morning when they have allotted hours for phone time, and told him you slept great (a lie). He told you his bed was surprisingly comfortable (a lie) and that his bunkmate was actually a pretty nice guy (hard to know yet if this was a lie or not, considering the large, tattooed man hadn't said a single word to him as of yet, but the odds never seemed to be in Travis' favor, so...probably a lie).
But there were truths, too.
You giddily said how stoked you were for in-person visitation in four days, and he agreed, saying it was the only thing keeping him upright.
And you told him you loved him, of course.
Friday took its sweet ass time coming around, but when it finally did it was so worth the wait.
If anyone laid their hands on you as you passed through security and all the scanners and gates at the prison, they'd feel you physically buzzing with excitement. It was like a maze in here, the walls all bare, white stone that constantly seemed to be turning and looping around themselves. If there weren't tiny, joyless paper arrows taped every few feet, you would never find the visitation area.
When you take what feels like the sixtieth or seventieth left turn in a row, the door suddenly opens into a small vestibule with tables and chairs, a vending machine in the corner, and an area behind glass for the officers to observe all of the interactions.
One beside the door, a tall man with olive skin and a thick mustache, ushers you to a table in the back corner.
"They'll be in shortly. You're permitted two hugs - one on arrival, one on departure. Thirty seconds max. No kissing, no gifts; giving or receiving. Any questions?"
You shake your head, his words still swirling around in your head as he stiffly strides back to his post.
A few minutes later, the sunshine spills into the room.
Travis peeks around the frame, eyes immediately falling on you nervously standing there. A weird cross between a gasp and a yip escapes you, and you hustle to him as calmly as you can as not to cause a kerfuffle. Too much excitement probably wasn't great in a place like this.
But you threw your arms around him, his around you, and you both dug into each other's clothing with your fingers as if you could absorb into one another and just leave as one new being.
That'd be pretty cool, actually.
Travis rocks you gently, swaying and babbling things into your ear so fast you can't register them. The officer in the corner coughs, and when you open an eye to peek at him he's sternly tapping his watch. As much as it pains you both, you let go.
You sat across from one another at this tiny steel card table in uncomfortable metal chairs, holding hands like it was an absolute luxury. Tears escaped both of you, but neither of you tried to hide them. What was the point? It was commiseration at its finest.
"I had this mental image of having to talk to you through glass on a fake phone or something. This is a lot nicer. I get to touch you."
"That's maximum security, baby. This is just the bare minimum, this is pretty relaxed by those standards."
"Out of all the words in your vocabulary, relaxed isn't the one I would choose." You both chuckle tiredly. "But it is so good to see you, baby. How they treatin' ya? Anyone's ass need kickin'?"
He rolls his eyes, his thumbs rubbing small, grounding circles into the backs of your hands.
"Nah, it's been fine. Breakfast is good, lunch usually sucks, but dinner's alright most of the time. I miss your fried chicken like, real bad."
"I'll make you the best fried chicken you've ever had when you come home."
The corners of his eyes crinkle up as a smile brightens his face, and you can't help but follow suit. You knew he was the center of your universe, but it really was like you could actually bask in the warmth and glow coming off of him. Even in this shithole.
•••
The next week doesn't go quite as smoothly. You've barely been sleeping, you're so nauseated all the time that you can hardly eat, and your eyes are almost constantly raw and red-rimmed from bursting into tears at random points throughout the day.
You hope, really, really fucking hope, that this is just an adjustment period for "girlfriends with incarcerated boyfriends". This is going to be a long year and a half if not.
And as much as you try to hide behind the concealer and artificially bright smiles, Travis immediately notices. He sees the wilting in your frame, the sunkenness in your reddened cheeks, and the stains on your clothes from wearing the same thing for days on end. You're not taking care of yourself out there, that much is clear.
And it's all my fault, he thinks as he lays in his cot that night. He got himself locked up in here for being a pushover. Funny, you always hated Davy, even before all this. Told Travis time and again to ditch him, that he was going to get him into trouble some day. But Travis was a nice guy -- he just had a hard time telling anyone "no".
Maybe to do what's best by you, he needed to start now.
•••
Another Friday morning rolls around again, and you try to busy yourself with your makeup routine while the pregnancy test marinates on the other end of the counter.
Two more minutes.
It all clicked into place about two days ago, when, on top of the unyielding nausea you'd been having more often than not, you realized that your period was late and your tits really hurt for no particular reason. You'd rolled over onto your stomach while you fitfully slept one night, and it actually woke you up with how much your chest ached.
And the craziest thing?
Despite being young, broke, temporarily on your own (etc.), your first thought about starting a family was a happy one. Travis would be an amazing dad, and you knew he'd be nothing but thrilled when you told him. His heart was big, he was loyal, and he valued the importance of family above everything.
Even his current predicament was really just a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, rather than a true moral failing. If anyone needed to be taking the fall, it was that scumbag Hazy Davy, who had conveniently booked it through the forest on the edge of town the night of the snatch-n-grab and hasn't been seen since.
He had better pray to whatever God he believes in that you never get your hands on him...
The timer on your phone goes off, so you set down your lip liner and lift up the test, and well...yep.
You and Travis were going to be parents.
•••
He sees you at the table in the corner where you've visited the last two times. You've got your makeup on today, but he can still see how worn down you've become. You're picking the skin around your nails nervously and talking silently under your breath.
This is for the best, right?
He's been arguing with his own brain all night about what the best thing for you would be. He was stuck here for the next year and a half no matter what, but you didn't have to be locked up right alongside him. You could be going out, free, living your life, enjoying your youth...meeting someone else.
Someone who might treat you the way you deserve. Maybe someone who'll spoil you, take you places, see the world with you. Someone better than him.
Unfortunately, he knew that no one would ever love you as much as he did. That simply wasn't possible. But maybe you could at least find someone to make you happy enough. Preferably not from inside a jail cell, you know?
Yeah, it's for the best.
He walks in, suppressing his smile even though his mouth wants to curve automatically at just the sight of you. It's even harder when yours is so bright, like the second you see him you just reinflate.
"Tea! Hey, baby!" You jump up and hold out your arms for your first of two hugs. Travis is the only one who knows it'll be the last.
He curls his arms around your shoulders and squeezes you tight, covertly inhaling the scent of your apple shampoo and memorizing how your body perfectly melts right into his. He'd need those things on the longer, lonelier nights.
You pull back from him, smoothing your hands over the khaki scrub top where his inmate number was printed in militant, black ink, pretending you could just wipe that identity away. You'd never let him be reduced to just a number.
"How ya doin, sugar?"
He immediately regrets using the pet name, he's just going to make this more confusing and difficult if he doesn't start detaching now. He steps away from you and settles down into the chair, not pulling yours back for you first. You barely notice since you're so excited to share the news of your pregnancy.
"Well, y'know, it's been kinda rough, Tea. Wonder why that could be?" You bite the inside of your cheek, playing coy. The test was in your coat pocket, just waiting for the perfect moment to bring it out.
He inhales deeply through his nose, brows pinched and mouth set in a hard line. It was so far from his usual chipper, charming, goofy self, that alarm bells start going off in your head. The announcement had to wait.
"Hey, what's wrong, baby?" You reach over to put your hands in his, but he pulls them back into his lap to avoid your touch.
Your eyes lock onto his, suddenly feeling something eerily akin to dread.
"I think we oughta stop this, darlin'. This isn't - neither one of us is gettin' anything out of it. S'just a chore for you to have to come down every Friday, and we can't even kiss or really have any real conversations, y'know. It's just...it's gonna get boring."
Goddamnit, it was like dragging a knife out of his chest and sticking into your own. The air was punched from your lungs at his words; you almost aren't positive you've heard anything he's said.
"Travis -- ya just want me to stop visiting? Is that it, is it too stressful? Cause I can just do the phone calls and write ya, but --"
"Nah, I'm sayin' we need to stop. We. This. I'm sayin'...I want ya to move on, y'know?"
You're momentarily blinded by a stinging onslaught of fresh tears as they well up and cascade over your lashes, down your cheeks, and splatter on the shiny, metal tabletop. You feel like you can't catch your breath, and that your heart is either beating way too fast or has stopped completely.
The only word you can manage to squeak past your tightening windpipe is a very small, very broken, "Why?"
And he knew he had to do the most damage here, because he needs you to walk out those doors and leave him locked firmly behind them - every piece, every fond memory, every grain of hope. But still, he didn't want to lie. Not again.
"It just ain't worth it."
While he means that hanging onto him isn't worth all the pain it's causing you, he knows you'll likely think it means your love isn't worth it to him. The idea alone kills him, but he walls off the part of his brain that begs him to use his words, to over explain and define things, to talk and talk and talk until his throat bled.
He looks forlornly at the ceiling, wishing it would just open up and suck him into the vacuum of space, but when you stand and the legs of your metal chair grate harshly against the tile floor his eyes move to you on instinct. He can't help but have a flicker of hope that you outright deny him his request, tell him he's being stupid and that you'll see him next week.
Instead, you stuff your hands in your coat pockets, fiddle around in them for a moment, then swallow back a sob and storm out the doors without a parting word. He watches you leave until he can no longer see any trace of you.
The second you set foot on the crunchy gravel walkway outside Elsworth, you puke your guts out. Crying and heaving, retching and sobbing, snot and spit and stomach contents slicking your cheeks and chin.
You grab the stick from your pocket and slam it to the ground with every ounce of force you have left, hiking your knee up to crush it with your heel. A fluttering in your abdomen stops you. Maybe it's gas you're reading too far into, but then again...
What if your little one is stroking the cozy confines of your womb to comfort you? What if it's their way of saying, "Damn, Mama. That was fucked up. But we got this, right?" You clutch your middle, rubbing them back reassuringly.
Is this mothering?
"Sorry, little bean. I've gotchu, Mama's gotchu. We can do this, right?"
Another feeling of butterflies alights inside of you, and you smile in spite of yourself.
Summary: Something feels off. You try to ignore it at first, brush it off as stress, lack of sleep, anything but what your mind keeps circling back to. But the days keep passing… and nothing changes. Eddie notices before you say anything, and once you finally do, there’s no going back.
a/n: This is part one of a four-part series 🖤 I've been thinking about this idea for a bit, and I’m really excited to finally start it. This is more on the soft + emotional side, with a little angst and a very protective Eddie (my favorite version of him). The reader is Dustin's older sister in this series, so there’s going to be some fun dynamics with that as it goes on. Everything is set in an AU where nothing from season 4 happens <3 Please let me know what you think!! And seriously, tell me who else you want me to write for next 👀 oh I also want to add I have no idea if Dustin is fifteen in season 4, so.
Little metalhead
MASTERLIST
Chapter two
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The first time I noticed it, I told myself not to be stupid. That was the problem, really. Not the date circled on the little calendar by the fridge, not the low uneasiness that had been sitting in my chest all week, not even the dull nausea that kept rising at the strangest times. The problem was that the second the thought slipped into my head, I couldn't get rid of it.
So I ignored it on Monday when I stood in front of the bathroom mirror before school, staring at my own reflection with my toothbrush hanging uselessly out of my mouth, mentally counting backwards and trying not to let my mind wander somewhere I didn't want it to go.
I ignored it on Tuesday when I fell asleep on the couch in the middle of the afternoon with a back half-open on my chest and woke up an hour later disoriented and warm, Dustin standing over me like I'd committed a crime. I ignored it on Wednesday when the smell of eggs made my stomach twist so hard I had to step out onto the back porch and breathe through my mouth until the feeling passed.
And on Thursday, when I found myself back in the kitchen with the calendar and the pen and the same horrible creeping feeling, I realized ignoring it wasn't working.
The house was quiet in that hollow late-afternoon way it only ever was for maybe twenty minutes out of the whole day. My mom wasn't home yet. Dustin wasn't back from school. But for now, it was just me, the humming fridge, and the ugly yellow light spilling in over the sink.
I stared at the date. Counted once. Counted twice. Then again, because maybe I'd somehow forgotten how numbers worked. No. Still late. Still enough days late that my stomach sank a little further every time I looked. I tapped the pen against the table. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I told myself there were a million reasons why my cycle could be off. Stress. Sleep. Eating weird. The weather. The universe being crule for fun. I'd read somewhere that bodies changed all the time, that sometimes things just happened for no reason, and it didn't automatically mean. The front door slammed. I jumped so hard the pen flew out of my hand and clattered onto the floor.
"Jesus Christ," I muttered, pressing a hand over my chest. A second later, Dustin appeared in the kitchen doorway, hair windblown, backpack half-open, expression suspicious before he'd even fully looked at me. "...why are you sitting in the dark?" I blinked at him
Then looked around. He was right. I hadn't turned the actual kitchen light on. Just the one above the stove, leaving the rest of the room washed in muted gray and gold. "I'm not sitting in the dark." He gave me a look so flat it would've been funny any other day. "You literally are." I bent to grab the pen from the floor. "Okay, well, I didn't realize." He dropped his backpack by the wall and squinted at me the way he did when he thought he was on the verge of solving something.
"You're weird." "Thank you." "No, like, weird-weird," he said, stepping closer. "You've been weird all week." I forced my attention back to the calendar and shoved the pen into the little cup by the microwave. "Can you be more annoying, or is this your limit?"
"I'm serious." "So am I." He folded his arms. "You keep falling asleep in random places." "I took a snap." "You hate naps." "I don't hate naps." "You said naps make you feel gross and disoriented and like your soul left your body." I turned and stared at him. "Why do you remember things I say only when they can be used against me?" "Because I'm smart."
"Debatable." That got the finest twitch out of his mouth, but it didn't last. He kept looking at me with narrowed eyes, all nosy younger-brother concern hidden under his usual dramatic nonsense. His gaze drifted to the calendar. Then back at me. "... are you sick?"
"No." "You sure?" "Yes." He took two steps closer, still studying me. "Because mom thought maybe you were coming down with something." I frowned. "Mom said that?" "She asked why you hadn't touched breakfast." My stomach rolled at the memory of scrambled eggs.
"I wasn't hungry." "Which is also weird," Dustin said. "You always steal my toast." "You say that like 'I've been robbing you at knifepoint." He shrugged. "You kind of do." Despite myself, a laugh almost made it out. Almost. But then the laugh got caught somewhere behind the knot in my throat, and Dustin noticed that too. Not teasing now. Just watchful. "...did something happen?" he asked quieter. The softness in his voice caught me off guard.
I looked away before he could see it. "No." "Are you and Eddie fighting?" My head snapped up so fast my neck hurt. "What? No." Dustin lifted one shoulder. "I don't know. You're acting weird. He's been acting weird, too." My heart skipped. "What do you mean, he's been acting weird?"
"He asked me three times if I seemed okay." I blinked. Of course he did. Of course, Eddie noticed. Something warm and terrible bloomed in my chest all at once. "Oh." "Yeah, oh," Dustin said, eyes narrowing again. "Is something wrong?" Before I could answer, there was a knock at the door, two quick raps, then one louder one that sounded less like knocking and more like somebody hitting the wood with their ringed fist.
Dustin's whole face changed immediately. "Oh, thank God." I didn't have to ask who it was. He was already halfway out of the kitchen when he shouted, "It's open!" The door swung wide, and then Eddie Munson's voice drifted through the house, warm and familiar and fairly comforting.
"Nice security system you got here, Henderson. Real alright." I stayed where I was, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. There was the usual shuffle of Dustin grabbing at Eddie's denim jacket, asking if he brought the campaign sheets, Eddie saying something about respect and personal space, both of them bickering all the way into the front hall. Familiar. Easy. Normal.
I wanted normal so badly my chest ached with it. Then Eddie came into view in the kitchen doorway, and everything else dropped away. He had one hand braced on the frame, curls a little frizzed from the wind outside, Hellfire shirt half-hidden under a faded flannel.
His eyes found mine immediately. And changed. Just a little. But enough. There it was, that look he got when he clocked something off in me before I'd even spoken.
Concern tucked beneath softness. Attention sharpened by affection. "Hey," he said. "Hey." Dustin looked between the two of us. Then, with zero subtlety: "...I'm gonna go set up my stuff in the living room." Neither of us answered. Dustin pointed a finger between Eddie and me. "Don't do anything weird." I stared at him. "Please leave." "Gladly." He disappeared, muttering to himself. The second he was out of sight, silence settled between Eddie and me. Not awkward. Just full.
Eddie stepped into the kitchen slowly. "Hi," he said again, quietly this time. I tried to smile. "You already said that." "Yeah, well." He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I felt like the first one didn't really hit." That earned the tiniest huff of laughter out of me.
His mouth softened in response, but his eyes stayed fixed on my face. "You okay?" There it was. Simple. Gentle. Impossible to answer. I looked down at the counter. "I'm fine." He waited for a beat. Then, "You keep saying that." I glanced back p. "Maybe because it's true?" "Maybe." He tipped his head, studying me. "Or maybe because you don't wanna tell me what's actually going on."
"Eddie—" "I'm not trying to pry, sweetheart." His voice gentled further. "I just know you." That was the problem. He did know me. Better than anything, sometimes, in the small, frightening ways that made my ribs feel too tight. He knew the difference between my real smile and the one I put on when I was tired. He knew when I was pretending not to be upset. He knew every version of my silence.
And lately, he'd been looking at me like he could hear what I wasn't saying. I reached for a glass in the sink, even though it was already clean, just to give my hands something to do.
"I'm tiered." "Mhm." I looked over my shoulder. "What does that mean?" "It means," Eddie said, leaning one shoulder against the doorway now, "you've apparently entered your mysterious Victorian heroine era, and I'm not buying the act."
I rolled my eyes, but weakly. He pushed off the frame and came a little closer. "You've been quiet all week. You barely touched lunch yesterday. Henderson says you keep falling asleep on the couch. and you look..." H based, like he was trying to choose a word I wouldn't immediately hate. "...off." A hard wave of emotion rose so fast I almost hated him for noticing.
"I'm not off." His expression softened. "Okay." "Don't do that." "What?" "That voice." His eyebrow lifted. "What voice?" "The one where you act all calm because you think I'm about to freak out."
A tiny smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "Maybe because you look like you're about to freak out." I set the glass down harder than I meant to. The sound cracked through the room. Immediately, guilt followed. Eddie stilled. Then, very carefully, he said, "Hey." I shut my eyes. "Sorry." "Don't apologize." "I snapped." "You're allowed." I laughed once under my breath, humorless. "Not really." He took the last step between us before I even realized he'd moved. On warm hand.
settled against my upper arm, feather-light, like he was giving me every chance to pull away if I wanted. I didn't. "Talk to me," he said softly. My throat tightened.
From the living room came the muffled sound of Dustin dropping a pile of books and complaining loudly to no one. It made everything feel even more normal, which somehow made the panic worse. "I don't know what to say." "How about starting with why you look like you haven't taken a full breath in three days?" I stared at the button on his flannel instead of his face.
He waited. Didn't rush me. Didn't fill the silence just because he could. It made something in me crack. "I think something's wrong," I whispered. The hand on my arm tightened just enough to be grounding.
"What kind of wrong?" "I don't know." "That's okay." "No, it's not." My voice thinned. Because I should know." "Why?" "Because it's my body." He was quiet for half a second. "And bodies do weird, terrifying, unpredicatble things all the time. That doesn't mean you're supposed to have all of the answers.
I swallowed hard. He dipped his head slightly, trying to catch my eyes. "Are you sick?" "No." "Do you feel sick?" "Not really." That earned a look. I sighed. "A little. Sometimes." "Since when?" "A couple of days." "Nauseous?" I hesitated. That was enough for him.
"Okay," he said gently. "Anything else?" I looked away. He followed my silence again, not with impatience but with understanding that somehow made it worse. "Tired?" I nodded. "Anything hurting?" "No." He was quiet. Then his gaze flicked towards the calendar on the fridge. The one I hadn't hidden. The one I should have moved the second I heard the door open. His expression changed, subtle but immediate.
His eyes dropped back to mine. And in a voice so careful it nearly undid me, he asked, "Are you late?" The room seemed to tilt. My heart pounded once, hard enough to make my fingers tingle.
I hadn't said it out loud yet. Not really. Not in a way that made it real. I looked at him, and because it was Eddie, because it had always been Eddie, I couldn't lie. "...yeah." He went very still. Not scared. Not angry. Not anything bd. Just processing. "How late?" I crossed my arms over myself, suddenly cold. "Enough."
His jaw shifted. Then he nodded once, more to himself than to me, "Okay." That word shouldn't have felt comforting. It did anyway. I laughed shakily and scrubbed a hand over my face. "Don't do that."
"Do what?" "Say okay like this, somehow okay." He frowned a little. I didn't say it was nothing. I said okay because I heard you." "Oh, sweetheart—" "Don't," I said quickly, embarrassed now. "I'm not—I'm not crying." "You are a terrible liar." "I know." He moved closer, both hands on my arms now, thumbs brushing over my sleeves. I let myself lean into him for exactly one second before forcing myself upright again.
"Have you taken a test?" he asked. "No." "Have you bought one?" "No." "Do you want to?" I opened my mouth. Closed it. Because that was the question, wasn't it? Not whether I should. Not wether I eventually had to. But whether I wanted to know right now, tonight, while the kitchen smelled faintly like dish soap and Dustin's voice carried in from the living room and the world still looked mostly the same.
"I don't know," I whispered. He nodded slowly, as if that made perfect sense. "Okay." I let out a weak laugh. "You keep saying that like it's helping." That like it's helping. "Is it?"
A tiny bit. I hated that he could tell. Before I could answer. Dustin yelled, "If you two are secretly making out in the kitchen again, I'm burning all my campaign notes!" Eddie and I both jerked apart on instinct. Eddie barked out a laugh, loud and real, the sound filling the room in a way that loosened something in my chest.
"See?" he said, looking toward the doorway. "Nothing says romance like the threat of arson." I wiped under my eye quickly. "Shut up." His grin softened into something gentler. "You wanna tell him?" My eyes widened. "Absolutely not." "Yeah, I figured."
"Not until I know. And not in this house. And definitely not while he's already being weird." 'In fairness, Henderson was born weird." "That's true." Eddie glanced toward the living room, then back at me. "You want me to stay after Hellfire?" The answer rose in my throat instantly. Yes. Always, yes.
But Dustin's camaign ight had been planned for days, and if Eddie stayed here after, he'd either have to sneak around my house or face my endless interrogation from my brother, who had somehow become both his biggest fan and his biggest menace.
Still, the idea of being alone with my thoughts tonight felt unbearable. So I nodded. "Yeah," I said softly. Please." His face changed at that one word, all the teasing gone. "Yeah. Of course."
I stared at him for a second too long. Then Dustin shouted again, "MUNSON!" Eddie sighed dramatically. "Duty calls." I almost smiled. He leaned down just enough to press a quick kiss to my forehead. Soft. Familiar. Grounding. His lips lingered a second longer than usual. "W'll figure it out," he murmured.
My eyes closed. I wanted to believe him so badly. When he pulled back, he gave my hand a quick squeeze, then headed toward the living room. I followed a second later, forcing my breathing to even out before I crossed the threshold.
Dustin was sprawled on the rug, surrounded by notebooks and dice, looking deeply offended by the entire universe. He pointed at both of us. "You took forever." Eddie dropped onto the floor beside him. "Maybe because some of us don't treat roleplaying games like military operations, Henderson." "It starts in twenty minutes."
"It starts when I say it starts." "It starts at six thirty!" Eddie looked scandalized. "Who died and made you king?" Dustin opened his mouth with an answer immediately. "My intellect." That one got a real laugh out of me, and both boys looked over.
Dustin's eyes narrowed. Eddie's softened. He knew that laugh was for him. I hated how much that heled. For the next hour, I did my best to pretend everything was normal. I hovered at the edge of the living room with a book I wasn't reading while Dustin and Eddie argued over campaign notes and miniatures and which monster encounter was "narratively earned."
Eddie kept glancing at me whenever he thought I wasn't looking. I caught him every time. When Mom arrived from work, she kissed the top of Dustin's head, told him to stop yelling like somebody was dying, then turned to me and frowned.
"Honey, you look pale." My whole body went rigid. "I'm fine," I said too quickly. From the floor, Eddie coughed into his hand to hide what sounded suspiciously like a laugh. I shot him a look. He raised both hands innocently. Mom pressed the back of her hand to my forehead before I could dodge her. "You sure you're not getting sick?"
"No fever," I said. "Mhm. Still. Get some rest tonight." Then she swept back out as suddenly as she'd come, leaving behind a casserole dish and the smell of perfume. The second the front door shut, Dustin turned dramatically toward me. "That's what I said."
I stared at him. "Are yoy keeping score?" "Yes." "Please don't." He pointed across the room at Eddie. "See? I told you." "You did," Eddie said mildly. My eyes widened. "You two talked about me?" "In a concerned way," Dustin said. "In a very normal, non-creepy way," Eddie added. "That somehow made it worse." Dustin shrugged. "You started it by being suspicious." I pressed the book to my chest and turned away before either of them could see the smile threatening at the edge of my mouth.
They loved me. That was the worst part. They loved me, and if the fear in my chest turned out to be real, their lives ould changed too. By the time Hellfire actually started, the house was louder. Two more boys had shown up. Somebody tracked mud onto the rug. Dustin was in full dramatic mode, yelling over a rule, arguing while Eddie lounged back against the couch like a smug dictator in a flannel shirt.
I sat curled in the armchair nearby, knees tucked up, trying and failing to pay attention. Every now and then, Eddie would lean over the makeshift board to ask if I wanted water.
Or crackers. Or for him to "accidentally" kill Dustin's favorite character in retaliation for being annoying. That last one got him smacked in the shoulder with a notebook. By eight, my head hurt. By nine, I was struggling to stay awake. And by the time the last of the boys left and Dustin started stacking his books with all the tragic energy of a war survivor, my whole body felt heavy.
Eddie noticed immediately. "You okay to drive me home?" he asked, voice low enough that Dustin wouldn't hear from across the room. I nodded. "Yeah." "I can bike," Dustin said suddenly, somehow hearing everything despite being on the other side of the room. "You don't have to leave."
I blinked. "What?" He rolled his eyes like I was the stupidest person alive. "I'm not an idiot. You clearly want him to stay." I almost choked. Eddie made a strangled sound that was definitely him trying not to laugh. "Dustin—" "And I'm fifteen, not five," he continued. "I can bike to Mike's if Mon says it's okay." I stared at him. He stared back. Then Eddie, very carefully, said. "That is... weirdly mature of you, Henderson." "I know." "You're still weird," I said faintly.
He pointed at me. "And you're still suspicious." But fifteen minutes later, after a quick call to my mom and enough assurance that yes, Dustin would lock the back door and no, he wouldn't burn the house down while I was gone, Eddie and I were in the van with the windows cracked, Hawkins passing by in dark, sleepy blurs.
For a while, neither of us spoke. The silence in the van was different from the silence in my kitchen earlier. Not sharp. Not waiting to break. Just full of everything we were both thinking and hadn't found the words for yet.
Eddie drove one-handed, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel. His other hand rested on the seat between us. After three stoplights and one turn past the dimmed storefronts downtown, I finally reached over and took it. His fingers curled around mine instantly.
He didn't look away from the road, but his thumb brushed over my knuckles. "You're quiet," he said. "So are you." "Yeah, but I'm driving. It looks more mysterious on me." That got a tiny smile. He glanced over just long enough to catch it, then squeezed my hand once. "Wanna come back to the trailer?" he asked. "Wayne's at work. We can just...be there for a while." I nodded.
His trailer had never scared me the way it seemed to scare half the town. To them, it was the wrong side of everything, too loud, too shabby, too much proof that life didn't always come out neat. To me, it was warm lamps and mismatched blankets and the smell of coffee and metal and old books. Wayne's boots are by the door. Eddie's guitar is leaning in the corner. A place where nobody expected me to be anything except exactly what I was.
When he parked outside, the whole trailer park was quiet except for a distant television and a dog barking somewhere down the row. Eddie killed the engine but didn't move. Neither did I. He looked at our joined hands.
Then at me. "You don't have to say anything right away." I exhaled slowly. "I know." "But?" "But if I don't say it, it feels less real." His face softened. "Yeah." I stared out the windshield. The inside of the van smelled like old vinyl, peppermint gum, and Eddie's cologne. Familiar enough to make my chest ache. "I'm scared," I said finally. It came out so small I almost wished I could take it back. Instead, Eddie answered just as quietly. "I know."
"No—" I shook my head. "I'm really scared." He leaned back in his seat, giving me space instead of rushing in. "That makes sense." I should've been more careful." He was silent for a second. "We both should've." I looked at him then.
He didn't say it defensively. Didn't throw it back at me. He just took it too. My eyes burned. "I keep replaying everything in my head," I whispered. "Like if I think hard enough, maybe I can undo it somehow." His mouth pulled tight for a second. "You can't think your way backward." "I know." He nodded once. "Still gonna try, though?" I huffed out a laugh that turned shaky at the edges. "Probably." "Yeah." He lifted our joined hands and pressed my knuckles to his lips. "Sounds like you."
That almost broke me. I stared at him, at the curve of his hair by his cheekbone, at the dark seriousness in his eyes that only ever showed itself when it mattered. "You're not mad?" His head jerked back slightly. "Mad?"
"Or I don't know. Freaked out. Regretting things." He stared at me like he couldn't believe that question had come out of my mouth. Then he leaned closer, not touching my face yet, just making sure I was looking at him. "Listen to me," he said. "Am I scared? Yeah. A little. A lot, maybe. But mad at you? No. Never that." My throat tightened. "And regretting you?" he added, softer now, like the idea itself offended him. "Not even a little bit." The tears came before I could stop them.
"Hey, hey." He unbuckled and shifted closer, one hand cupping the back of my neck. "Come here." I went. Of course. I folded into him across the middle console with a half-laugh, half-sob of frustration, and he aught me easily, wrapping both arms around me until my forehead rested against his shoulder.
His flannel was soft under my cheek. He smelled like smoke, cold air, and something warm beneath it that was just him. He held me like there was nowhere else he'd rather be. And for one long, quiet moment, the world narrowed down to that.
His hand moved slowly up and down my back. "You don't have to do this part alone," he murmured into my hair. "I know." "You can still be scared." "I know." "You can cry as much as you want. Even though your brother would one hundred percent roast you for it." A wet laugh escaped me.
"There she is," he said softly. You stayed like that until your last breath evened out. When you finally pulled back, embarrassed and blotchy and exhausted, he didn't say a word about your face. He just handed you the crumbled napkin from the glove box and waited while you wiped under your eyes. "Came inside?" he asked. I nodded. Inside the trailer, everything felt softer under the low yellow lamps.
Eddie kicked off his shoe by the door and went straight to the kitchen corner, grabbing two glasses and filling one with water before setting it in front of me like he'd done it a hundred times. Maybe he had.
I sat at the small table while he rummaged through the cabinet. "I have crackers," he announced. I groaned. "Do not say that like I'm pregnant." He froze. Then turned slowly, box of saltines in hand. We both stared at each other. And then, because the universe apparently had a sense of humor, we both started laughing at the same time.
Quiet at first. Then harder. Not because it was funny exactly, but because the tension had to go somewhere. Eddie dropped into the chair across from me, shaking his head. "Okay. That one was my bad." "That was awful."
"It was objectively terrible." "I kind of hate you." He pushed the crackers toward me. "Eat one before you pass out, and I'll forgive the hostility." I took one mostly to prove I could. It sat better than expected. He noticed that too. I hated that he noticed everything. The laughter faded. Silence returned, gentler now. Eddie picked at the peeling label on his beer bottle, though he wasn't drinking it. "What are you thinking?" he asked.
I looked down at the cracker in my hand. "That I don't know what will happen next." "That's fair." "I don't know if I wanna know tonight." "That's also fair." "But if I wait, I'm just gonna keep spiraling."
"Probably." I looked up. You're not comforting right now." He gave a small smile. "I'm trying this new thing where I don't lie to you." I rolled my eyes, but fondly. Then my gaze drifted toward the little window over the sink where darkness had fully settled outside. A reflection of the trailer glowed faintly in the glass lamp light, the table, and the two of us suspended in this strange in-between.
"Eddie?" "Yeah?" "If it is..." He didn't rush me. "If it is," I tried again, voice thin, "everything changes." Hi face went soft in that deep, serious way that made him look older. "Yeah." The honesty of it hurt more than reassurance would have. I swallowed hard. "And that terrifies me."
"I know." He leaned forward, forearms on his knees. "But everything changing doesn't automatically mean everything ends." I stared at him. He held my gaze. "I'm not saying it's easy," he continued. "I'm not saying it won't be hard or messy or scary as hell sometimes. But if that test says what you think it's gonna say..." He exhaled slowly. Then we deal with what's real. Together. One thing at a time."
My eyes burned again. He huffed softly. "You gotta stop doing that." "What?" "Looking at me like I just handed you the moon because I said the bare minimum decent boyfriend thing." A laugh escapes me. "Sure it was." "It really wasn't." He shrugged like he didn't believe me, and that made my chest ache in a completely different way.
I reached across the table and touched the back of his hand. He flipped his palm over instantly and laced our fingers together. "Stay with me tonight?" I asked. He didn't even hesitate.
"Yeah." I knew he couldn't actually stay all night without causing questions from both Wayne and my mom, but I also knew what I meant: until I fell asleep, until my breathing calmed, until the thoughts stopped biting at me for a little while. He understood anyway. "Do you wanna go get one?" he asked quietly. I looked at him. "A test," he said, even quieter. The room seemed to shrink around the words. The answer should have been no.
It should have been tomorrow, or next week, or after one more day of pretending. Instead, to my own surprise, I heard myself say, "Yeah." His fingers tightened around mine. "Okay." I laughed once, shaky. "There it is again."
He stood, grabbing his keys from the hook by the door, then came around the table and held a hand out to me like this was some strange terribel dance and he was asking me to trust him through it. I took it. The drugstore on the edge of town was nearly empty. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The cashier looked half-asleep.
Somewhere in the back, a radio played a song too tiny to recognize. I stood just inside the doors for a second with my arms folded tight over myself while Eddie looked around like he was expecting the shelves to start mocking him.
"This feels cursed," he muttered. Desiote everything, I snorted. "There she is again." "Stop saying that." "No." We walked the aisle together in awful silence until we reached the section we needed. There were too many choices. Too many boxes. Too many smiling women on packages that made it all feel fake and distant and impossible to connect to my own body. I stared at them until the words blurred.
Eddie came up beside me, careful not to touch unless I invited it. "Want me to pick?" "No." "Good, because I have no qualifications." I let out a breath. Then I reached for the painest box I could find, one with too much pink on it and promises printed across the front in cheerful letters that made me want to throw up.
My hand trembled a little. Eddie saw that too. Of course he did. Without saying anything, he took the box from me and carried it to the register so I wouldn't have to.
That made my throat ache. The cashier barely looked up. Just scanned it, named the price, and slid the bag across the counter. I wanted to be grateful for indifference. Instead, it made the whole thing feel eerie. Back in the van, the little plastic bag sat between us on the seat like a third presence. Neither of us touched it. By the time Eddie pulled up outside my house, every window was dark except the lamp in the front, which Dustin always forgot to turn off.
"Do you want me to come in?" he asked. I looked at the house. Then back at him. "Yeah." Inside, Dustin was sprawled asleep on the couch with one sock off and a comic book over his face. Eddie and I froze in the doorway. Then Eddie whispered, "That kid sleeps like he pays rent."
I elbowed him lightly and moved to wake Dustin just enough to send him to bed. He mumbled something about goblins cheating, stumbled down the hall, and disappeared into his room without ever really opening his eyes. The house settled again. Quiet. Dark. Watching. Eddie and I stood in the kitchen staring at the bag. "I can wait outside," he said softly. I looked up. "No."
He nodded once. "Okay." I took the bag and headed for the bathroom with him trailing a few steps behind. At the door, I stopped. My hand on the knob. My breathing is too shallow.
Eddie stood in the hallway, not crowding me. "You don't have to rush." "I know." But I opened the door anyway. The bathroom light felt too bright. I set the bag on the sink and stared at my own reflection. Plale. Tired. Eyes wide. For the second, I was hit by the absurd urge to laugh. How ridiculous that everything could split open in a room with cracked tile and a loose faucet handle and one of Dustin's stupid science fair ribbons still hanging from the corner of the mirror.
Behind me, Eddie's voice came gently through the half-open door. "I'm right here." I shut my eyes. Then I opened the box. A minute later, I was sitting on the closed toilet seat with the test on the edges of the sink, my hands clasped so tightly in my lap they hurt.
Eddie sat on the floor just outside the bathroom door, back against the hall wall like some kind of guardian keeping watch. Neither of us spoke. The whole house felt like it was hodling it's breath. I looked at the little stick. Then away. Then back again. Not yet. Still processing. Still processing. Still. Eddie," I whispered. He was on his feet instantly, but it didn't come in. "Yeah?"
My eyes stayed fixed on the sink. "I can't tell if it's—" My voice broke. He stepped into the doorway carefully, gaze flicking from my face to his tear and back. I looked up at him, panic rising all over again, sharp and hot. "Is that—" He came closer. Slowly. His hand found mine.
And when he looked at the test, the whole room seemed to go still. The room went very, very quiet. Not the normal kind of quiet. Not the kind we'd had earlier in the kitchen, or the soft quiet of Eddie's trailer with the lamps on and the world dimmed around us. This was different. This felt like everything had stopped. Like, even the air in my lungs had paused, waiting. Eddie didn't move right away.
His hand was still wrapped around mine, warm and steady, but I could feel it just the slightest tigehening of his fingers, like something inside him had locked into place.
My eyes stayed on his face. Not the test. Not yet. Because whatever was on that little plastic stick... I'd see it reflected in him first. His eyes flicked down again. Then back up. Then down one more time, like he was making sure he wasn't seeing it wrong. "...okay," he said. But it came out quieter then befpre. Different.
Not the same, okay, he'd been using all night. This one was heavier. My stomach dropped. "Eddie," I whispered, my voice barley was holding together, "just tell me." He swallowed. I saw it. The way his throat moved.
The way his jaw tightened just slightly, like he was trying to keep everything calm for me. For me. God. "...it's—" he started, then stopped. My fingers tightened in his. "Please." And that did it. That one word. His eyes lifted to mine fully now, no hesitation, no looking away. And so gently it almost hurt. "It's positive." The word didn't hit all at once.
It kind of... echoed. Like my brain didn't know where to put it yet. Positive. Positive. Positive. My ears rang. My chest felt tight. I blinked once. Twice. "...okay," I said, but it sounded far away. Like someone else had said it. Eddie's grip on my hand tightened again.
"Hey," he said softly. I didn't look at him. My eyes had dropped to the sink now. To the test. To the two lines that were suddenly the only thing I could see. It didn't look real. It didn't feel real. It was just... was. And that somehow made it worse. "I—" I tried, but my voice broke before anything came out. My breath hitched. Once. Then again. And then it all came at once.
The panic. The weight. The overwhelming, crushing realization of what that meant. My hand flew up to my mouth as a sob slipped out before I could stop it. "Hey, hey, hey—" Eddie was in front of me instantly. I hadn't even seen him move.
His hands were on my arms, then my shoulders, then my face, trying to ground me without overwhelming me, trying to figure out what I needed before I even knew myself. "It's okay," he said quickly. "Hey, it's okay, I've got you—" "I can't—" I gasped, shaking my head, tears spilling over now, "I can't do this, Eddie, I can't—" "Yes, you can," he said immediately, not harsh, not forceful, just certain. I hook my head harder. "No, I can't, I can't, I can't—" "Hey," he said again, firmer this time.
His hands cupped my face, forcing me to look at him. My vision blurred with tears, but he didn't let me look away. "Look at me," he said. I did. Barely. "I know this is scary," he said, voice low and steady. "I know. I'm scared too." That stopped me. Just enough.
"But you're not doing this alone," he continued. "Okay?" You're not. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere." My lips trembled. "You don't know that." "I do." "How?" my voice cracked. Eddie, this changes everything—" "Yeah," he cut in gently. "It does." That wasn't what I expected. I blinked at him through my tears. "I'm not gonna lie to you and say it doesn't," he said. "It does. Everything's gonna be different. But different doesn't automatically mean bad.
"It doesn't mean good either," I whispered. "No," he agreed softly. "It doesn't." The honesty made my chest ache. "But we'll figure it out," he added, "one step at a time. We don't have to solve everything tonight." My breathing was still uneven. Still too fast. "I don't even know where to start." "Then we don't start," he said. "Not yet." I stared at him.
He wiped under my eyes gently with his thumbs, careful, like I might break. "Right now," he said, "we just breathe." My chest hitched again. "I can't—" "You can," he said, softer now. "With me. Okay? Just follow me."
He took a slow breath in. Held it. Let it out. I tried to match him. It didn't work the first time. Or the second. But by the third, my lungs started to cooperate. My shoulders dropped just slightly. My grip on his shirt loosened. "That's it," he murmured. I closed my eyes. Another breath. Another. And slowly, very slowly, the panic dulled into something quieter.
Still heavy. Still there. But not as sharp. When I opened my eyes again, he was still right there. Still watching, like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. "I'm sorry," I whispered. His eyebrows pulled together immediately. "For what?"
"For this." His expression shifted instantly. "No." "For everything," I said. gesturing vaguely between us, the bathroom, the test, the whole situation. "I shoudn've been more careful, I should've—" "Stop." The word wasn't harsh. But it was firm. I froze. "That's not all on you," he said, quieter now. None of this is just on you." My throat tightened. "I don't want you blaming yourself for something we both—" He exhauled, shaking his head slightly. "That's not fair. To you."
I looked down. Because part of me still wanted to. Because it was easier than sitting in the uncertainty. Eddie noticed. Of course he did. His hand slid from my cheek down to my wrist, gently pulling it away from where I'd started picking at my sleeve.
"Hey," he said softly. I looked back up. "Don't disappear on me now, okay?" My chest tightened at that. "I'm trying not to." "I know." There was a pause. A quiet one. Not empty, just full of everything, neither of us knew how to say it yet. My eyes drifted back to the sink. To the test. Still there. Still real. "Eddie..." My voice dropped again, fragile. "What do we do?" He followed my gaze. Then looked back at me.
And for a second, just a second, I saw it. The fear. Not overwhelming. Not panicking. But real. Honest. And somehow...that made me feel less alone. "We don't decide everything right now," he said slowly. "We don't have to." "But—" "But nothing," he said gently. "Tonight? We just... sit with it. Let it be real. Tomorrow, we'll figure out the next step."
I swallowed. "That sounds impossible." "Yeah," he said. "It kinda is." A weak laugh slipped out of me. He smiled just a little. "See? Still funny." "Barely." "I'll take barely." My hands drifted without me even realizing it down to my stomach. It was instinct. Unthinking. Just... there. Eddie noticed. Of course he did. His eyes followed the movement. Then softer in a way I hadn't seen before. Different than earlier. Different from anything. Not panic. Not confusion. Just... something new. Something quieter. His hand slowly covered mine.
Warm. Steady. Neither of us spoke. Neither of us moved. Just stood there, hands resting together over something that hadn't even begun to slow yet, but suddenly felt like it filled the entire room. My breath caught again. But this time... It wasn't panic. Not completely. "I don't feel any different," I whispered.
Eddie's Thum brushed lightly over my kncukles. "Yeah," he said softly. "I don't think you're supposed to yet." I let out a shaky breath. "Everything fels the same." "And completely different at the same time?"
I looked up at him. "... yeah." He nodded. "Yeah. That sounds about right." We both stood there for another second. Then two. Then five. Time didn't feel normal anymore. Finally, Eddie galnced toward the hallway. "Come on," he said gently. "Let's get out of the bathroom before it starts feeling like a horror movie."
A small, broken laugh escapes me. "Yeah. Okay." He laced our fingers together again and guided me out into the dim hallway, flicking the bathroom light off behind us. The house felt different now. The same furniture.
The same walls. The same quiet. But everything had shifted. Just slightly. Just enough. I stopped in the middle of the hallway. Eddie stopped with me. "... stay with me tonight?" I asked. His answer came immediately. "Yeah." No hesitation. No question. Just yes. Always yes. And for the first time since I'd seen those two lines. I felt maybe... Just maybe... I wouldn't completely fall apart.
Tags: nbpreg, unplanned pregnancy, cryptic pregnancy, character doesn’t know what’s happening at first, inconvenient birth, supportive partner
CW for miscarriage (no actual miscarriage but character thinks they’re having one)
:.:.:.:.:.:
You only found out you were pregnant, like, a month ago. You have no idea when you actually got pregnant, because your periods have always been kind of whack and you and Ben are probably definitely not as careful as you should be. Usually it’s fine—you’re on birth control, you’re not that stupid. This time it’s not.
You took probably a dozen pregnancy tests in the following three days and when pretty much all of them were positive you decided it wasn’t likely every single one of them was wrong. You told Ben the day after that. You know he loves kids, and he knows you’d rather adopt.
He asks you what you’re going to do and you tell him you don’t know.
That was two weeks ago. You know you need to stop dragging your feet and at least get a doctor’s appointment, but you’re still not sure what you want. You keep telling yourself you have to think about it first.
But then you start feeling cramps. They’re not horrible at first, they’re mundane enough that you kind of ignore them. And then they don’t go away overnight, and then suddenly they’re bad enough you’re forced to call out of work, and you think shit, maybe you’re having a miscarriage.
You should really go to the doctor, you think, lying curled up on your shared bed in your shared apartment and breathing through the pain and building pressure.
But Ben’s a med student and he’s coming home soon and that’s basically the same, right? You’ll just wait for him to come home so you can figure out what the hell to do.
It’s just so long before his last class gets out and everything is so uncomfortable. When you can’t stand lying in bed anymore, you get up and walk around, hoping that’ll help. You take a hot shower. You try to breathe as the cramps get worse.
You start googling what to do if you think you’re having a miscarriage and enough of the answers are things like “seek medical attention” or “risk of serious injury” that you just stop and put your phone down, trying shove down the rising feeling of panic.
You last for two more hours until the waves of pain are so intense that you’re sweating and shaking and you feel like you’re going to throw up. They’re less waves now and more of a tide coming in—unavoidable and so close together that they’re basically just swallowing you.
It’s somewhere in there that you start feeling like something’s finally happening. Like something might be about to come out. You can feel it moving down, trying to push out of you.
Between cramps, you manage to crawl over to the toilet, kicking off your sweatpants and underwear so that you can lower yourself onto the seat. Tentatively, you slip your hand between your legs and feel around. There’s nothing there which is both a relief and also insane, since it feels like you’re about to shit a bowling ball.
It’s at this point you decide to text Ben because you waited too long and you’re definitely not going to be able to get to a doctor alone, and also if you die here on the toilet before he gets back you at least want to warn him about what he might be walking into.
You’re not sure if your message is coherent, but it doesn’t matter because he calls you within minutes to ask what’s wrong.
It’s hard for you to answer. It’s hard for you to talk or even think. You think you might have told him to come home and you think he might have said he was on his way. You’re not sure if he hangs up or not but that’s the least of your concerns right now. You’re panting, clinging to the vanity with white knuckled fingers, pushing your toes into the laminate floor to try to counteract some of the fucking pressure. You feel like you’re going to shit your organs into the toilet bowl, and you wonder if anyone’s ever shit their whole uterus out while having a miscarriage cause that’s sure as fuck happening to you right now. You can’t stop it. It needs to come out. You need to push.
So you do.
The first push floods you with relief. The pressure or pain really don’t ease much, but it feels like you’re doing something, so you push again, longer and harder. Then again. You lose yourself to that for god knows how long, feeling the fetus or baby or whatever it is now inching down until eventually the progress slows, then stops.
You try to keep pushing. You squirm on the seat, attempting to jostle it into progress again by changing position. You sit through several more cramps, cursing silently to yourself. Eventually, you reach down to feel around again. Nothing.
The pressure becomes unbearable. You grunt loudly through contractions that tighten your belly in a vise grip and clench your teeth, wanting to crawl out of your skin. Then suddenly you feel a pop and warm liquid gushes from you into the toilet. You part your legs and look down in mild panic, but it’s not blood. The fluid is clear, and still leaking from you.
And thank fuck, some of the pressure is gone.
You’re only given a few seconds of relief before cramps start again and the insane pressure comes roaring back and you’re bent over pushing before you can stop yourself or think. You let out a long, low groan of effort as your entire belly tightens, forcing you to help it expel its failure.
This is what Ben comes back to. You don’t actually even notice when he comes in, he’s just suddenly there, crouching in front of you, warm hands on your shaking knees, face and voice filled with concern. You’re too relieved to be embarrassed.
“Why didn’t you call sooner?” He says, squeezing your wrists reassuringly as you gulp in air after pushing for so long your vision spotted. His worry is so palpable you can almost taste it.
“Didn’t know it would be this bad,” you manage to spit out. “Can you see…?”
He helps you spread your legs apart, but another surge overtakes you before he can really look. Your hands find his shoulders and grip him like a lifeline as you bear down again, a growl of effort scraping out of your throat. He waits, rubbing a thumb over your leg. It’s almost overstimulating but the reminder he’s there makes it worth it.
His brow is furrowed in uncertainty when you’re done. “How long has this been going on?” He asks, one hand on your thigh. He’s gentle as he slips his fingers inside you.
“Cramps started yesterday,” you say, then at his look, you amend, “but they didn’t get really bad until earlier.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He’s concentrating, eyes out of focus. “What is…?” he murmurs. Then his eyes go wide.
“Holy shit.”
The urge to push again hits you like a truck and you groan again, trying to resist the urge to bear down.
“What?” You grit out.
Ben looks up at you, face pale. “You’re not having a miscarriage. I think you’re having the baby.”
“What?!”
He pulls his fingers out. “You said contractions started yesterday and got worse today. Did your water break? Did you feel like you pissed yourself?”
You think about that pop and gush earlier. “Yeah, but—it can’t… that’s not—”
Ben looks down again at whatever he can see under the soft swell of your belly. “I felt hair.”
“Of course you felt fucking hair!”
“No, not… your hair. Inside. I felt a head.”
There’s no way. There’s no fucking way. “It’s only been two weeks! There can’t be—uhh!” You break off with a groan as another cramp started.
“I’m not lying to you, M.” How calm his voice sounds is pissing you off.
“I know, I just—ah…fuck!” You grit your teeth, trying to resist the almost unbearable urge to push. However much it hurts, the idea that an actual full-sized baby is coming out of you right now is worse.
You wait for the pain to pass, the force of it leaving you shaking. “Are you sure?” You rasp, hating the fear in your voice.
Ben meets your eyes and you see your fear matched, which makes you realize he’s just pretending to be calm for your sake, which does actually make you feel a little bit better. “Yes,” he says in a voice barely above a whisper.
You close your eyes, chest heaving. “Fuck.”
You felt the warmth of Ben’s calloused hand come to rest over your knuckles. “Are you okay?” he asks, and you hear his worry.
You keep your eyes closed and force out a bitter laugh. “No, I’m not fucking okay.”
Your belly starts to tighten again—to contract—and as the blinding pressure mounts again, something that sounds pathetically like a whimper escapes before you can choke it back. You grip the sides of the toilet seat until you hear it creak, trying to breathe through it.
You distantly feel Ben’s thumb stroking over the back of your hand; hear his voice, but his words are lost. You feel like you’re detaching from reality. This is insane.
The contraction slowly lets up and you realize Ben is saying your name. You let your eyes flicker open, unfocused. Your breathing is ragged, and you have no idea if it’s from panic or from literally fucking giving birth.
“Morgan, you have to push,” Ben is saying.
Anger flashes through you, followed by despair. This is really happening. You are going to fully give birth to a baby on the toilet of your fucking apartment bathroom. “I know,” you snap, unconvincingly.
Ben’s hand moves to brush the sweaty hair from your face. “Hey,” he says shakily. “You can do this.”
No you can’t. You feel like you’re going to die.
“Hey,” Ben repeats, and his voice is steadier. His hand slips down to your cheek, cupping it gently, making you look at him.
You meet his gaze, viscerally aware of the way your eyes are watering. Ben doesn’t waver. “You can do this,” he says firmly. “I know you can.”
He’s right. You can. And you really have no choice.
You force yourself to breathe in, to straighten, to attune to your body just as sharp pain runs across your stomach again. You can feel the baby’s head so low and heavy that you feel like it might just fall out of you if you sneeze.
If only it were that easy.
“You good?” Ben asks.
This time, you nod. Your breath quickens as the contraction intensifies. “Gonna push.”
The words are barely out of your mouth before currents of pain wash over you and you double over, bearing down until stars dance in your vision. Your focus tunnels until you’re not aware of anything but the insane pressure and the blur of Ben crouched on the tile floor between your knees. You can feel yourself stretching, the head finally moving down as you give your body the help it had been begging for. You don’t let up until the contraction eases.
Ben strokes your forehead, brushing your hair back again until the next contraction takes hold. The baby is so low, it feels like it’s curled up inside your pelvis for a nap.
At least, it does until the head moves low enough that your lips begin to spread to accommodate it, and as it starts to emerge, it burns like fire.
You choke back the sound that tries to escape you and instead breathe in and push again. Rest. Repeat.
After a dozen pushes, the cry of frustration you’ve been holding back slips out. It feels like you’re getting nowhere. The baby’s head keeps emerging when you push, only to slide back in once you stop.
“Can you see it?” Your voice holds an edge of desperation.
“I can see it when you push. The head’s peeking out.”
You slump back onto the toilet tank, gulping in air. “The head…. that’s it?”
Ben looks hesitant. “It’s supposed to be slow. So your, uh. So you don’t tear. You just need to keep pushing.”
You let your head flop back and squeeze your eyes shut, wincing as another contraction starts and your body demands you to push. “This fucking… ungh! Fucking…. suuuuuuuucks!”
Your words turn into a guttural cry as you bear down hard again and you suddenly feel yourself scrambling forward off the toilet seat and into Ben’s arms, leaning heavily into him as the baby shifts and moves down and finally crowns, and you stretch further than you have before. “Aaggghhhh…fuck! Fuck!”
It’s coming out now. It is definitely coming out. It’s like it heard you and out of spite, it’s pushing its way into the world and you couldn’t stop it if you wanted to. You hear yourself scream again, and you bury your face into Ben’s shirt as your legs buckle beneath you and you drop into a squat on the floor, pushing with the contraction that’s giving you no other choice.
You can feel everything as it happens—the slow, agonizing appearance of the baby’s forehead, its ears, its nose, its little chin.
“Come on, M,” you hear Ben murmuring to you as he holds you, solid and supportive. “Keep going. You’re doing it.”
You hang on to the sound of his voice and push.
Suddenly, relief. You hear fluid splash onto the laminate beneath and sag into Ben, panting.
“I think the head’s out.”
“Oh my god. Holy shit.”
You know he can’t see anything, not with the way you’re holding him in a vise grip, but he doesn’t seem to need proof. You can feel the baby hanging out of you, but no contraction. You realize your legs ache.
“Need to sit back,” you mumble into his shirt. He responds immediately, helping you lean back and lower your bare ass carefully onto the floor so you can let your body wilt against the cabinets.
You feel weak and tired and stupid, but none of this seems to bother him, or maybe it’s the shock of seeing his baby’s head bulging out of your vagina as you let your legs fall all the way open while you try to catch your breath.
He’s staring, transfixed in wonder. “Holy shit.”
You don’t have the ability to respond. Everything hurts. You reach down between your legs and feel the hair he’d been talking about. It’s thicker than you expected, and feels like it might be curly. Like his. Your breath hitches a little because fuck.
That’s a goddamn baby. That’s your goddamn baby. That’s a real fucking baby that the two of you made together.
Fuck.
The movement inside you takes you by surprise, and you grunt and shift in discomfort. It feels like the baby is wiggling and turning inside you, and it feels weird.
“What’s happening?” You hiss, moving your hands so you can brace yourself on the floor.
Ben shakes himself out of his daze and looks down more critically, then up at you. “They have to turn so their shoulders are facing the right way,” he says, then pauses. “Do you feel like you have to push?”
You shake your head. He nods, then leans forward, kissing your forehead. “You’re fucking amazing, you know that?”
“Ugh,” you gripe back, but he ignores that and strokes your cheek gently until the pressure begins to ramp up again and you squirm, trying to find a position that feels right.
Then the contraction hits and you’re pushing again, toes curling into the bathroom floor, back arching, vocalizing your pain into long, strained groan. You can feel how close you are to the end. It’s almost out. It’s almost over.
You breathe in and push as hard as you can. For a moment, your effort gets you nowhere, but then the baby’s shoulders suddenly spring free and the rest of their body follows in a rush of blood and fluid, landing in Ben’s waiting hands with a soft smack.
You slump against the cabinets as Ben cradles the baby who hiccups and then begins to cry, and that’s when you see his face is wet too. He moves to sit next to you against the cabinet, looking away from your child just long enough to kiss your cheek.
Don’t Say It’s Just Co-Parenting: H.Js
Han Jisung x fem!reader (College AU)
WC: 15.01K
CWs: Unplanned pregnancy, single parenthood, parental exhaustion, Childbirth and postpartum themes (mentioned briefly, not graphic), Gay Panic Central, Minho vs. The Heterosexual Agenda, Jisung Is an Idiot (confirmed by science), Minho Wants a Best-Friend Refund
General Masterlist SKZ Masterlist Patreon
Lee Minho checks the number on the cracked wall, squinting at the peeling paint and the faint buzzing of a fluorescent light that’s been flickering like it’s on its last leg. He looks back at his phone and rereads the message one more time. Apartment 143. The last time he’d been in a building this old, Hyunjin had sworn there was a ghost following him up the stairs, and Minho had nearly thrown him down them just to prove a point. He shakes his head, pockets his phone, and knocks on the door. “Let’s hope this girl hasn’t actually joined a cult,” he mutters under his breath.
The door opens a moment later, and there you are. The former cheerleader who disappeared thirteen months ago, like the earth swallowed her whole. You’re standing there in a fitted navy-blue jumpsuit cinched at the waist, silver zip details catching the dull hallway light, your white ankle socks silent against the wooden floor.
“Hi, Minho.”
He grins, a small huff leaving his nose. “Hi, Y/N. Long time no see. You fell off the face of the fucking earth.”
You laugh, stepping aside and motioning him in. “Come in before you start accusing me of being a ghost.”
The apartment is small but cosy, lived-in. There are plants on the windowsill, stacks of books on a low table, and colourful toys scattered across the floor. Plastic blocks, rattles, and a stuffed penguin missing an eye. He blinks. “Uh, babysitting gig?” he asks carefully, looking around as he slips off his shoes.
You hesitate, pushing a plush rabbit aside with your foot. “Ah, sorry about the mess.”
Minho follows you toward the living room, about to tell you it’s fine, when something catches his eye. Two steps in, right in the doorway, there’s a baby. A small, bright-eyed baby bouncing happily in a wheeled walker, babbling to himself as he slaps a light-up button that plays tinny music.
You smile softly. “That’s Rayeon. He’s eight months old. He was premature- Born at twenty-eight weeks.”
He blinks at how easily you say it, your tone steady but fond. “Wow, you know a lot about this kid.” Then he looks at you again. You’re shifting your weight, eyes flicking down awkwardly, and the realisation hits like a bus. “Oh. Oh! He’s yours?”
You nod slowly. “Yeah.”
Minho’s eyes widen, then soften. “He’s adorable.”
You chuckle as he crouches down, and Rayeon gnaws on his fist while eyeing him with curious fascination. The baby’s got big brown eyes and round cheeks. Minho’s brain short-circuits for a moment. Wait. Those eyes. Those cheeks. That’s suspiciously similar to someone he knows. His brain starts spinning alarm bells.
No. No fucking way. Han Jisung, his dumbass, serial-flirt best friend? The universe wouldn’t do him that dirty. Or maybe it would, just for laughs. “He looks... healthy,” Minho manages to say, because his brain is now a battlefield between gay panic and detective-level deduction.
“Who’s the appa?” he blurts before he can stop himself.
You sigh. “No idea. It was that party to celebrate the win against the Levanter Lobos. Fifteen months ago. Obviously, with the maths-”
“Oh shit,” Minho nods slowly.
You nod. “Yeah, the 70s icons one. I was a female Elton John. White suit, mini skirt instead of trousers, feathers on the shoulders.”
“Looked cool as fuck,” Minho says honestly, remembering flashes of that chaotic night.
“Thank you- Wait, no, not the point.” You cover your face for a second. “I hooked up with a guy. In the garden shed.”
Minho snickers. “The fucking shed?”
You throw him a look. “I know, real romantic. But he was dressed as the Phantom of the Opera.”
Minho nods, lips twitching. “Yeah, yeah, I know that one. So, Phantom of the Opera, from almost a year and a half ago, is the mysterious appa. Nice.”
You laugh quietly, shaking your head as you both walk into the living room. Rayeon wheels himself after you, babbling happily, pressing buttons on his walker that light up and play snippets of children’s songs and animal noises. The sound of a cow mooing fills the room, followed by a sheep bleating.
“You ever tell anyone on campus?” Minho asks.
You shake your head, settling onto the couch. “No. That’s why I vanished.”
He watches as Rayeon bounces in his walker, smacking a button that flashes blue and makes a duck sound. “That’s fair. People on campus talk too much shit anyway.”
You chuckle softly, opening your laptop as he sits beside you and does the same. Rayeon hums and wheels himself around like a little car, occasionally bumping your legs.
“Okay,” Minho says, cracking his knuckles. “Let’s get started. I was thinking Disease Surveillance in Wildlife Populations. Like how zoonotic diseases spread among wildlife and impact conservation.”
You nod, typing as Rayeon starts babbling louder, slapping the animal buttons. “That sounds great. Press the one that makes the cat sound. He’ll love you forever.”
Minho raises a brow, leans over, and presses the cat button. A sharp meow comes out, and Rayeon immediately starts giggling, clapping his little hands. Minho blinks at him, presses the button again, and the baby laughs harder, smacking the light-up buttons. Minho finds himself grinning. “Damn, kid, you’ve got taste.”
As you both start working, Minho suggests, “What about covering disease as a conservation threat too? Like outbreaks affecting endangered species. Canine distemper, avian flu, Ebola. It ties into my vet background.”
Rayeon wheels himself closer, patting your knees. You pick him up effortlessly, balancing him on your lap as he babbles, tugging at your hair and trying to shove it into his mouth. You don’t even blink. “Then for conservation, we could discuss population-level impacts, disruption of breeding programs, cascading effects in ecosystems,” you say calmly, typing with one hand while Rayeon chews your hair.
“Jesus, multitasking queen,” Minho mutters. “We could look at canine distemper in Amur tigers.”
“And Ebola in gorillas in Central Africa,” you add, smiling when Rayeon gnaws on your fingers.
Minho chuckles. “Dribbly little thing, aren’t you, Rayeon-ah?”
Rayeon pauses mid-gnaw to blink at him, then claps his hands and laughs. “He’s teething. Gnawing helps.”
Minho snorts. “Yeah, I remember when my cat Dori was teething. Little bastard chewed through everything. My eomma almost lost her mind. Now she sends me pictures of him in hats. They own the place.”
You laugh softly as Rayeon hums around your finger. “It’s really good seeing you again, Minho.”
“Yeah,” he says sincerely. “I missed you, you know. We all did. Hyunjin, especially, he had this whole conspiracy that you’d been murdered.”
You snort. “He would.”
“Then one night he went, ‘Life’s too short. You and Seungmin need to get your shit together. It’s what Y/N would’ve wanted.’” Minho grins. “Worked, though. But for a while after we got together, we couldn’t have sex because it felt like you were hovering over us as some moral ghost.”
You laugh so hard you nearly drop Rayeon, who squeals at the noise. “That’s so fucking weird.”
Minho shrugs. “Yeah, well. We’re weird. Welcome back to Miroh, Y/N.”
You grin, spooning mashed banana and yoghurt into Rayeon’s mouth. “Glad to be back. Chaos and all.”
Minho’s brain is fried. Absolutely deep-fried, dipped in oil, rolled in salt, and thrown into the fucking sun. By the time he gets back to the Alpha Phi house, he’s barely steering straight. He swings too wide onto the driveway, scraping the curb, and nearly clips Chan’s bumper. “Fuck!” he yells, slamming on the brakes. The car jerks to a stop at an angle that looks like an optical illusion. He stares through the windshield, panting, eyes darting to check the damage. Chan’s car is intact, Seungmin’s wing mirror is hanging on for dear life, and Changbin’s door is safe by about three millimetres.
“Okay,” Minho mutters, gripping the steering wheel. “We survived. The gays live another day.” Then his thoughts hit him again like a truck: Jisung. Baby. Phantom. Elton. Fuck.
He’s out of the car before it’s even fully off, stumbling toward the house. Seungmin barely gets a “hey hyung, you’re back-” out before Minho zooms past like he’s in a dramatic chase scene, taking the stairs two at a time. “Minho-hyung?” Seungmin calls, eyebrows furrowed, but Minho doesn’t respond. He storms straight into Jisung’s room and slams the door open.
Jisung jerks upright from where he’s lying on his bed, phone in hand. His hair is a mess, and his voice comes out in a drawl. “Hyungggggg, I was just messaging with a girl from my course, we were about to start nude swapping, what the actual fuck?”
“Pause your fucking sexting, I have one question for you,” Minho says, pacing like he’s about to summon divine judgement. “And you’re not allowed any follow-up questions. I’m invoking our code.”
Jisung’s eyes widen, his phone slipping from his hand. “Shit. The code? You’re invoking the question-no-follow-up code?”
“Yes,” Minho says gravely, pointing a finger at him like he’s accusing a criminal. “The sacred one. You answer honestly, I say nothing else, you ask nothing else.”
Jisung blinks. “Alright, alright, fuck, okay. Code invoked. Hit me.”
Minho inhales through his nose, holds the breath for a moment, and blurts out, “L/N Y/N. Did you ever have sex with her?”
Jisung freezes mid-blink. Then his brows pull together, and he tilts his head slightly, like he’s replaying something in his brain. Minho’s heart stops when he sees it, those wide brown eyes, those stupid cheeks, and he nearly faints.
“Oh, I did!” Jisung says cheerfully, like he’s just remembered where he left his AirPods. “The Levanter Lobos game, like, pffft, over a year ago?”
Minho’s eye twitches. His whole face remains perfectly neutral, but his brain is screaming in several languages.
“Yeah,” Jisung continues, completely unaware of the gay crisis unfolding in front of him. “She was dressed like a female Elton John, and I was the Phantom of the Opera. We hooked up in the garden shed.”
Minho feels his soul detach from his body, float to the ceiling, and start writing its will. He just stands there, blinking in disbelief, while Jisung rolls onto his stomach, adjusting his pillow like this is a perfectly normal conversation. Code or not, Minho wants to scream. Instead, he pulls out his phone with trembling hands and texts you.
Minho: found Phantom Appa for u, wanna meet him?
You:?
Minho: I'm a gay genius don’t question me
You: only if he'll actually stick around
Minho: oh believe me he wouldn't dare be a deadbeat appa, he's scared of me :) xoxo
You: who is it?
Minho: Han Jisung
You send back a horrified screaming cat gif, some cartoon that looks familiar, and Minho stares at it, thinking, what was that cartoon called? Tim and Johnny? Tom and something? Whatever. The gif speaks for you better than words ever could.
He locks his phone, turns, and leaves Jisung’s room silently, closing the door behind him like he’s in a funeral procession. Down the hall, he enters his own room and collapses face-first onto his bed, muffling a scream into the pillow so loud it almost vibrates the frame.
Two seconds later, Seungmin appears in the doorway, leaning against it with crossed arms. “Minho-hyungggg,” he says, dragging out the syllable, “oh my symmetrical boyfriend, why have you been soul-sniped, you poor gay?”
Minho lifts his face, hair sticking to his forehead. “Never. Ever. Get a hetero best friend.”
Seungmin walks in before perching on the bed. “What did Jisung-hyung do now?”
Minho makes a sound. It’s not quite human. It’s a high-pitched, broken noise followed by flailing hands, like someone exorcising a demon. Seungmin tilts his head, listening carefully as Minho continues to wail, the words blending into one another until it’s just chaotic syllables and the occasional “fuck” thrown in for punctuation. To anyone else, it’s nonsense. But Seungmin speaks fluent Tragic Gay.
“You saw L/N Y/N?!” he translates, eyes widening, and Minho nods dramatically, wailing louder. “She has a baby?”
More frantic nodding, more wailing. Seungmin’s eyes narrow. “No. No, it’s not his baby. Han Jisung cannot be an appa. The world is not that cruel.”
Minho nods rapidly, tears of disbelief forming and the wailing intensifies into incoherent gay sirens. Seungmin throws a hand over his mouth in mock horror. “There’s a half crackhead, investigative journalist, half conservationist cheerleader baby in the world?” Minho flails both hands and lets out an unholy sound that might be agreement. Seungmin just stares at him, caught somewhere between awe and amusement.
Once Minho finally stops wailing long enough to breathe, Seungmin sighs, walks to the speaker on the desk, and turns on loud music so they can talk privately. Minho sits up, looking like he’s aged ten years, and Seungmin rests a hand on his knee. “Okay, deep breath, start over, no shrieking.”
Minho inhales shakily. “I went to her place for the joint project. She’s got a baby, Seungmin. An actual fucking baby. Named Rayeon. He’s adorable, by the way, but he’s got Jisung’s entire fucking face. Like, it’s not even a mystery. It’s like someone printed Jisung’s dumbass head in miniature.”
“As a fucking heart attack,” Minho mutters, flopping back on the bed. “I asked Jisung under the code, and he admitted it. I nearly ascended.”
Seungmin lies beside him, staring at the ceiling. “We live in the worst timeline.”
Minho groans into the pillow again. “The dumbass doesn’t even know he’s an appa yet. He’s just out there... breathing... being stupid.”
In the room next door, Jisung sneezes and then sneezes again. He sniffles, scratching his nose and glaring at the ceiling. “Someone’s talking shit about me,” he mutters before another sneeze hits. “It’s Seungmin. I know it’s that little shit.” He grabs a tissue, blows his nose, and mutters to himself, “Fucking allergies or fucking betrayal, who knows anymore.”
You wheel the pram slowly up the Alpha Phi driveway, trying to convince yourself that this is just another casual meeting. Rayeon hums around his pacifier, clutching his stuffed rabbit in one hand and occasionally smacking it against his padded dungarees. The little Paddington bear embroidered on his chest seems to smile approvingly at everything. You take a deep breath and tell yourself that this is fine. You’re fine. It’s not every day you reintroduce yourself to a group of loud, half-feral fraternity-member footballers and reveal that one of them accidentally fathered a baby in a shed.
The front door opens before you even knock, and there stands Minho, looking entirely too composed for someone who has probably been vibrating with anxiety since last night. He waves you in with one hand, and you lift Rayeon out of the pram. The baby immediately buries his face in your chest, one small hand gripping your top as he keeps happily sucking on his pacifier. Behind Minho, Seungmin appears, already rolling his eyes but smiling softly when he sees Rayeon.
“Oh my god,” Seungmin says as he helps Minho fold the pram and drag it up the steps. “He really looks like Jisung.”
You blink at him, uncertain whether to laugh or cry, and look to Minho. “You’re certain?”
Minho nods grimly. “He remembers fucking you in the garden shed.”
You wince, smiling sheepishly. “Right. That... yeah.”
Seungmin freezes, turns his head sharply toward Minho, and says flatly, “All that gay wailing, and you failed to mention they fucked in the shed?”
Minho shrugs with the serenity of a man who’s accepted his fate. “I was distracted by the tiny human outcome, Seungminnie. I have priorities.”
You snort quietly, shifting Rayeon in your arms as he stares curiously at the new faces. Minho wheels the pram neatly against the hallway wall, while Seungmin grabs the baby bag and swings it over his shoulder with surprising ease.
The house smells faintly of coffee, detergent, and something burnt, probably the aftermath of Changbin’s attempts at breakfast. You follow Minho down the hallway, your heart beating faster with every step.
In the living room, Jisung’s voice carries out before you even see him. “Minho-hyung, you said you were bringing me a surprise. It better be your bulgogi. That shit is so good!”
Minho steps through the doorway first, giving you a quick look that screams Brace Yourself. Jisung stands in the middle of the room, loose black long-sleeve tucked into high-waisted wide-leg trousers, platform sneakers giving him just a bit too much height. His hair falls over his forehead, and he’s smiling like an overexcited golden retriever.
“Jisung,” Minho says slowly, “I need you to sit down. In case you faint.”
“Why would I faint?” Jisung laughs, looking suspicious. “You about to come out as straight?”
“Just sit down, you pabo.” Jisung rolls his eyes but flops onto the couch dramatically, stretching his legs out, and Minho glances toward the door. “You can come in now.”
You step inside with Rayeon in your arms, his pacifier bobbing as he stares at the unfamiliar room. Jisung’s grin brightens the second he sees you. “Oh shit, hey Y/N! I knew Hyunjin was wrong about you being dead!” His words tumble out fast, his relief genuine, but his eyes soon drop to the baby on your hip. “Cute kid.”
Minho reaches into his pocket, pulls out a folded piece of paper, and unfolds it with theatrical precision. It’s a printed baby photo of Jisung, and he holds it up beside Rayeon’s face. Jisung blinks, glancing between the photo and the baby, then back again. His jaw slowly drops as he realises the resemblance is undeniable.
“His name’s Rayeon,” you say quietly.
Jisung opens his mouth, shuts it again, then stares at Minho. “When you invoked the code and asked if I ever had sex with Y/N-”
Minho just raises the photo higher, and Jisung pales like someone just pulled the floor out from under him. “Maybe he should, uh, put his head between his knees,” you suggest softly.
“Oh fuck,” Jisung mutters, leaning forward, hands on his head. “Oh fuck, no. No way.”
“If you want a DNA test, we can get one,” you say quickly. “I’ll pay for it.”
Jisung shakes his head frantically. “No, uh, I don’t think it’s necessary. Considering my eyes and cheeks are copy-pasted on his face. And, fuck, I know I didn’t use a condom in the shed.” He groans, dragging his hands down his face. “I’ll start paying for things. I have money, I can handle it.”
Seungmin, still holding the baby bag, leans in to inspect Rayeon like he’s a science exhibit. “I still think you should get the test, no offence, Y/N.”
“None taken,” you reply easily, catching Rayeon’s pacifier as he spits it out, clearly bored with it. You tuck it into your pocket, balancing him on one arm. Just then, Felix bounces in, sunlight personified, wearing flour-dusted joggers and smelling faintly of cinnamon.
“Y/N! You finally reappeared!” he exclaims, then freezes mid-breath when his gaze lands on Rayeon. “Why is there a baby Jisung on your hip- Ohhhh holy fuck.”
Jisung groans, scrubbing a hand down his face again. Felix’s jaw drops further. “He’s so cute! Oh my god, Jisungieee, he’s got your cheeks!”
Jisung just nods weakly, mumbling something about destiny and bad luck. “Do you want to hold him?” you ask gently, and Jisung looks up, startled.
“I- uh- yeah. Yeah, sure.” His hands tremble as he reaches out, and you carefully pass Rayeon over, making sure you stay in the baby’s line of sight. Rayeon blinks up at Jisung, grabbing one of his fingers almost immediately and cooing happily.
“God,” Minho mutters from the side, arms crossed, “it’s like cloning.”
Jisung opens his mouth to say something sentimental when Rayeon lets out a small burp. You know that sound, but it's too late. The baby pukes a modest but effective splatter down Jisung’s front, and for a second, no one moves. Then Seungmin snorts. “Welcome to appahood.”
You clap a hand over your mouth, torn between laughing and apologising. “I did burp him before we left. Sometimes he just gets reflux or gulps too much air. It happens.”
Jisung stares down at his ruined shirt, then at the giggling baby in his arms. “It’s fine. This is just a plain shirt,” he says, voice dazed, as if his body hasn’t caught up to his brain. He looks at Rayeon again, really looks this time, and something in his expression softens. The shock fades, replaced by quiet realisation. He’s a father. There’s a small, warm, living person who exists because of one chaotic night in a shed, and that person’s laugh sounds like sunlight.
Before he can say anything, Felix, self-declared gossip goblin, claps his hands. “So this is why you vanished?” You nod, adjusting the strap of your bag as Rayeon tugs at Jisung’s shirt and Felix tilts his head. “So it’s just you?”
You hum, nodding again. “Yeah. My appa disapproved, so I cut him off. My eomma’s a bit of a wanderer, sent a cheque in the post and a text from somewhere in Spain, I think. But we’ve made it work.”
The room goes quiet for a moment. Even Minho stops smirking. Jisung looks up at you, still holding Rayeon close, his voice soft for once. “You really did all this on your own?”
You smile faintly. “We did it together. He’s a good kid.”
Rayeon coos in agreement, smacking Jisung’s cheek with a drooly hand. Felix giggles, Minho sighs dramatically, and Seungmin mutters something about “hetero consequences” under his breath.
Two weeks later, Jisung is sprawled on your living room rug, legs crossed, a fitted black t-shirt clinging to his chest and tucked neatly into his wide-leg cargo pants, his boots abandoned by the door. His black-framed glasses perch on his nose as he squints at the stacking cups like they’re part of a mission. He looks irritatingly good for someone who once mistook the laundry detergent bottle for fabric softener.
You’re sitting opposite him in a pastel pink cropped sweater and jeans splattered with white heart designs, legs folded under you, Ugg boots kicked off beside the sofa. Between you both, Rayeon sits on the floor, a blue-and-purple Sully onesie making him look like a miniature monster mascot. His little hood has horns that wobble every time he moves, and the tail bumps against the rug as he rocks forward on his chubby legs.
“Up, up, up,” you say cheerfully, stacking the cups into a tall, wobbly tower.
Rayeon’s eyes glimmer with mischief as Jisung adds the final cup to the top, holding his breath for dramatic effect. You both lean back, pretending to admire the masterpiece. Rayeon looks at it, looks at you, then slams his little hand forward, knocking it down with surprising precision.
“Crash!” you exclaim, gasping dramatically.
Jisung clutches his chest. “Oh nooo, not the architectural marvel!”
Rayeon giggles, slapping his hands together, his laughter turning into those squeaky baby chuckles that make your heart melt. You both gasp and widen your eyes every time he does it, which only makes him laugh harder until he topples over sideways onto his stuffed rabbit. Jisung laughs so hard he almost falls back himself. “He’s a menace. An adorable one, but still.”
Rayeon grabs two cups and bangs them together, humming proudly at the sound. You grin. “He’s getting better at the stacking thing. Look at him, he can actually get one inside the other now.”
Jisung watches, resting his chin in his hand. “He should crawl soon, right? With all the shuffling and rocking?”
You glance up at him, amused. “You’ve done your research.”
“Of course I did.” He straightens, puffing his chest out. “I’m an investigative journalism major, and I’m an appa now. I know everything there is to know about baby motor skills. I even asked my hyung and Hyeongsu about my nephew. He started crawling at nine months. Rayeon’s ahead of schedule, obviously. He’s a genius.”
You smirk. “You also know when you change his nappy, he’s gonna piss on you, right?”
Jisung’s confident expression collapses. “Unfortunately, yes. My nephew already initiated me into that horror.”
“Good. Then you’re prepared,” you say, stacking the cups again while Rayeon grabs one and chews on it like it personally offended him.
Jisung sets up the baby play tunnel next, the colourful one Felix insisted on buying because “it’ll help with cognitive development and coordination, plus it’s cute as fuck.” The tunnel snakes across the rug, a bright tube of blue and yellow fabric. You and Jisung position yourselves at opposite ends so Rayeon can see both of you, because you both learned the hard way that disappearing out of his sight for more than three seconds leads to blood-curdling screams. The other day, you’d dropped a mug in the kitchen, and Jisung had poked his head out of the living room, barely a metre away from Rayeon, and the baby had howled like he’d been abandoned like Mowgli in the wilderness. It took both of you twenty minutes to calm him down and assure him you weren’t moving to Busan and leaving him to be raised by wolves.
Now, Rayeon sits at the entrance of the tunnel, rocking on his hands and knees, babbling a string of syllables as he slaps the fabric, then starts bottom-shuffling inside, his little Sully tail wiggling behind him. “Let’s go, little monster!” Jisung cheers from the far end, lying on his stomach so his face is visible through the tunnel.
You mirror him on your side, propped up on your elbows. “Come on, my dotori, eomma’s here!”
Rayeon pauses halfway through, turning his head between you both, clearly torn between his two favourite humans. He babbles something that sounds suspiciously like scolding before continuing his shuffle. “Peek-a-boo!” Jisung suddenly says, covering his face and uncovering it with exaggerated flair. His expression is ridiculous, eyes wide, tongue poking out.
Rayeon bursts into loud, wheezy laughter, and you follow suit. “Peek-a-boo!” You hide your face behind your hands and reveal it again, smiling brightly. Rayeon squeals and claps, absolutely losing it at the idea that both his parents have mastered advanced comedy.
The laughter fills the apartment, echoing off the walls until even Jisung’s phone buzzing in his pocket doesn’t break the rhythm. Rayeon claps his hands, bouncing on his knees, then flops onto his stomach and rolls onto his back, giggling uncontrollably.
Jisung points dramatically at you. “Come to appa, eomma’s stinky!”
You gasp in fake outrage, hand on your heart. “Yah, I showered this morning, you menace.”
Rayeon’s giggles turn to snorts as Jisung pulls another stupid face, puffing his cheeks out like a chipmunk and crossing his eyes. “Come on, buddy, eomma’s full of lies, appa’s got better faces!”
“Come to eomma, my dotori,” you coo, wiggling your fingers playfully. “Eomma will save you from appa’s nonsense.”
The baby squeals again, torn between both sides, then starts shuffling halfway before turning around, going back toward Jisung, then changing his mind again. He’s perfectly content in the middle, babbling at both of you, occasionally smacking the tunnel walls.
Jisung laughs so hard he has to wipe his eyes. “He’s gonna be just as indecisive as you, isn’t he?”
You shoot him a look. “Excuse me, I’m not indecisive. I just evaluate my options thoroughly.”
“Uh-huh,” Jisung says, voice dripping with mock seriousness. “Like how you evaluated your options the night we met and decided a garden shed was prime real estate for romantic activity?”
You throw one of the stacking cups at him, missing by an inch. “Shut up before I remind you how long it took you to figure out what a steriliser was.”
“Okay, fair point,” he admits with a laugh, leaning on his elbows to grin at Rayeon, who has now discovered that the tunnel makes funny noises when he slaps it. “Hear that, Rayeon-ah? Eomma's saying that Appa’s dumb.”
Rayeon lets out a loud coo, like he’s agreeing wholeheartedly.
“Traitor,” Jisung says, pretending to pout. “Already siding with eomma.”
You chuckle softly, watching the two of them. The sight hits you in the chest, Jisung lying there, hair messy, glasses slipping down his nose, making ridiculous faces just to make your son laugh. He’s been coming over every day, learning everything, helping with bottles, nappies, and bedtime routines. You lie back against the rug, smiling as Rayeon claps again, his laughter bubbling into another round of joyful squeals.
“Future truth, huh?” Jisung says suddenly, his tone softer as he watches Rayeon play.
You glance at him, surprised. “You remember?”
He nods. “You told me his name Hanja was for future and truth. Genuine future. That’s… kinda poetic.”
You smile. “It felt right. He’s exactly who he’s meant to be.”
Jisung hums in agreement, reaching out to fix the hood on Rayeon’s head so the little horns sit straight again. “Then I guess appa’s meant to be covered in drool for the foreseeable future.”
“Probably,” you laugh. “Welcome to parenthood, Han Jisung.”
He grins, shaking his head fondly as Rayeon lets out another delighted squeal. “Yeah,” he says quietly, “it’s not too bad.”
It’s a little past noon when Jisung finds himself standing at the edge of Greek Row, leaning casually against the low wall that marks the entrance to the strip of fraternity and sorority houses. The Omega Psi girl in front of him twirls a strand of her hair, giggling and blushing at something he’s barely aware he just said. Two and a half months ago, this kind of scene would’ve ended with him sneaking her into his room or finding some stupidly risky corner of campus to make out in. Back then, it was effortless, stupid, impulsive fun. But now, it feels hollow. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and every time she leans closer, he just feels uncomfortable. Because lately, the only person he wants to talk to, hell, the only person he even thinks about, is you.
He tries to listen as the girl rambles about an upcoming event, but his brain keeps drifting to the picture on his phone wallpaper. Rayeon grinning with his two bottom teeth visible, sitting in his little Sully onesie. Since the DNA test came back two months ago, his life has changed completely. He actually went and got his driver’s license last month, a miracle, considering the man once forgot which pedal was the brake, and bought a Hyundai IONIQ 6. Flashy enough to look cool, safe enough for a baby seat. He and you even drove out to the edge of Gyeonggi-do last weekend for Rayeon’s first swim.
The memory still flashes clear in his mind, Rayeon squealing in the shallow pool, tiny arms slapping the water while you held one side of his float and Jisung held the other. You’d worn a cropped rashguard and those short-cut bikini bottoms that made his brain crash like a computer. He’d spent half the afternoon pretending he wasn’t distracted while you laughed at Rayeon’s delighted squeals. Every single part of that day felt easy and right.
He blinks back to reality as the Omega girl giggles again, leaning forward. “So, Jisung oppa, you free tonight?”
“Uh.” He forces a laugh. “Maybe. Got some family stuff, though.”
Family. The word catches him by surprise. But that’s what it is, isn’t it? You and Rayeon. Before he can overthink it, his phone starts buzzing. He glances at the screen, and his chest tightens immediately when he sees your name flashing. He’s not due to visit for another couple of hours, which means something’s wrong.
“Sorry, I have to take this,” he mutters, already stepping back.
The girl tries to peek at his screen, but he tilts it away quickly. Most of the campus still thinks you joined a cult, and that rumour is easier to deal with than the truth. No one outside Alpha Phi knows about Rayeon.
He swipes to answer, and the first thing he hears is Rayeon’s wailing, the kind of cry that stabs straight through his chest. “Hey, you okay? Is Rayeon okay?”
Your voice comes through tight and tired. “He’s just crying. He’s not got a fever, he’s not sick, I just- I need help. I want to cry too, and I can’t be crying with our son. That’s not going to be productive.”
“Alright,” Jisung says instantly. “I can be there in ten minutes if I take the quick route.”
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“Don’t thank me, pabo,” he says softly. He hears you sniffle on the other end and adds, “Come on now, no crying. We’ll figure it out.”
He hangs up, already heading for his car. Ten minutes later, true to his word, he’s parking outside your apartment complex. The spare key you gave him slides into the lock, and the moment he steps inside, he hears the crying echoing from the living room. He follows the sound, kicking off his sneakers as he goes.
You’re standing there in the middle of the room, wearing a buttery-yellow loungewear set, wrap top tied at the waist, soft ribbed shorts, messy hair clipped back. You look utterly exhausted. Rayeon’s red-faced and thrashing in your arms, wailing at the top of his lungs.
Jisung shrugs off his hoodie, left in a simple t-shirt because Rayeon loves how warm he runs. The kid treats him like a portable heater. “Tag appa in,” Jisung says gently, extending his arms.
You hand Rayeon over without protest, sinking to the floor, shoulders sagging. “I’ve tried everything,” you mumble. “He’s been fed, changed, rocked and nothing.”
Jisung starts bouncing the baby lightly, rubbing his back in slow circles. “Come on now, Rayeon-ah. You’ve been changed, you’ve been fed premium booby milk, what more do you want?”
A laugh bubbles out of you despite how tired you are, and Jisung grins at the sound. The memory flashes in your head, the infamous breast milk incident. The day he’d warmed a bottle, tested it on his wrist, then licked it off, thinking it was formula. When you’d casually mentioned it was the breast milk from the fridge, he’d gone into full meltdown mode, swearing up and down he wasn’t a pervert and hadn’t meant to “accidentally taste” your milk, insisting it just tasted weirdly sweet. You’d laughed until you cried that day, and now the memory brings a weak giggle out of you even as Rayeon keeps wailing.
“Maybe he’s got trapped wind,” you suggest between tired chuckles. “Usually, he just farts or burps on his own after enough bouncing.”
“Oh, I know this one,” Jisung says confidently. “My hyeongsu told me this trick when I was asking her for tips. Apparently, my namja joka was also a tiny gas goblin.”
He lays Rayeon carefully on his back on the playmat, glancing at you for permission. You nod, watching him with a mixture of relief and exhaustion. Jisung starts massaging Rayeon’s stomach gently with the heel of his palm, moving in slow circles. “See, it helps move the air,” he explains quietly, almost to himself. Then he holds both of Rayeon’s feet and pumps them gently like he’s pedalling a bicycle. “This is the part where he either farts like a grown man or just burps in my face.”
You’re watching him now, your head tilted against the couch, lips twitching at the focus on his face. He massages again, repeating the cycle: circular motion, bicycle legs, then pressing Rayeon’s knees gently toward his stomach. The result is immediate. A sound erupts from the baby that could shake the windows. Both you and Jisung freeze.
“Holy shit,” he says blankly.
Rayeon sighs with relief, smiling a sleepy, dopey little grin like he’s just achieved nirvana, but then the smell hits. “Oh my fucking god,” you groan, covering your nose.
Jisung gags dramatically, waving his hand in front of his face. “We’ve created a bio-weapon. This child is a menace.” Rayeon yawns loudly, utterly content. You both stare at him, equal parts horrified and proud.
Once the worst of the smell dissipates, Jisung scoops Rayeon up and settles him into the cot in the corner of the living room. He tucks the blanket gently, the way he’s learned to do, snug but not tight, head turned slightly to the side. Rayeon’s already drifting off, thumb finding his mouth.
You let out a long exhale and collapse onto the couch. “Thank god.”
Jisung drops beside you, running a hand over his hair. “I ordered takeout on the way here. It’ll be here in about fifteen minutes.”
You nod weakly, rubbing at your eyes. “You think of everything.”
He laughs softly and reaches over, rubbing your back. “You can cry if you want, you know. Rayeon’s pissed on my clothes before; I’m not gonna judge if you cry on my t-shirt.”
You sniffle, staring at your hands. “I just couldn’t get him to stop crying. I felt so useless.”
“Hey, none of that,” Jisung says gently. “You called me. That was the right thing to do. I’m his appa, and I’m not gonna let you deal with him screaming until you’re at your limit. We’re in this together, remember? Don’t let yourself get overwhelmed like this again, okay?”
You nod, leaning against his shoulder, exhaustion finally catching up to you. His arm comes around you automatically, rubbing your arm in slow, comforting circles. The warmth of his body seeps through, grounding you and for a long moment, neither of you speaks. The apartment is quiet except for the faint sound of Rayeon’s soft breathing from the cot. You let yourself relax fully, eyes half-closed.
“I’m okay,” you whisper finally, resting your head on his shoulder. “Because you came.”
He smiles, pressing his cheek lightly against the top of your head. “You called.”
You huff a small laugh. “I’ll call again if the nuclear baby weapon activates.”
Jisung grins. “Yeah, and next time, I’m bringing a gas mask.”
You both laugh quietly, the kind that comes from relief more than amusement. Outside, Seoul hums faintly, cars in the distance, people going about their lives. Inside this tiny apartment, it’s just the three of you, peaceful for the first time all day.
When the knock on the door finally comes, Jisung gets up to grab the takeout. He glances back at you as you stretch on the couch, a faint smile tugging at his lips. You look tired but calmer, eyes soft as you watch Rayeon sleep. Something inside him twists, the kind of ache that feels almost warm. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he knows it now. This isn’t just co-parenting. This isn’t just friendship. He’s long past the point of pretending otherwise. Han Jisung, once campus’s proudest flirt, is well and truly fucked, because somewhere between bottle feeds, baby farts, and late-night movie sessions, he’s fallen for you.
Jisung lounges on the Alpha Phi living room couch, looking like sin itself had a gym membership. His black sweatpants hang low on his hips, black compression t-shirt clinging to his torso like a second skin. He’s barefoot in sliders, hair messy but styled enough to look accidental, sipping an iced americano that drips condensation onto the coaster he hasn’t bothered to use. He’s scrolling through his phone with furrowed brows, the glow of the screen reflecting in his dark eyes. The title at the top reads Falling in Love with My Baby Mama: Our Journey from Hookup to Happily Ever After.
He’s read that same sentence four times. He’s not even halfway down the page and already losing focus. The blog is long, way too long, and full of flowery metaphors about fate and “the sanctity of unexpected love.” Jisung mutters under his breath, “What the fuck is sanctity? Why can’t he just say he fell for her?” He takes another sip of his americano and sighs loudly, as if the caffeine will unlock enlightenment.
Chan walks in, a towel around his neck, still sweaty from training. “What you doing, Ji?”
“Uh, nothing, Channie hyung.”
“Right,” Chan says suspiciously and snatches Jisung’s phone before the younger can react. “Let’s see what- Oh my god.” He starts laughing, holding the phone just out of reach. “You’re reading a parenting blog? ‘Falling in Love with My Baby Mama’? Jisung, are you serious? You’re taking advice from some American asshole?”
Jisung groans, slumping back dramatically. “It applies! It’s literally the same situation!”
Chan scrolls with the precision of a man reading research papers for fun. Jisung watches bitterly, wishing he had a fraction of Chan’s focus. He’d gotten maybe three paragraphs in before his brain gave up halfway through a sentence about ‘emotional synergy in domestic partnerships.’
Chan finishes scanning the article in record time and looks at him. “Jisung, have you fully read this blog?”
“No,” Jisung mutters. “You stole my phone. I only got like a few lines in.”
“Good,” Chan says, setting the phone down with the gravitas of a professor about to drop truth bombs. “Let me tell you something, Sung-ah. This blog does not at all apply to your situation.”
Jisung frowns, crossing his arms. “Why not? It’s literally about the same thing!”
Chan sighs. “No, it’s not. This guy’s situation isn’t a parenting dilemma about having feelings for your baby’s eomma. It’s a horror show disguised as a love story.”
“It applies,” Jisung insists, gesturing vaguely. “Look, Channie hyung, I searched, ‘I got a girl pregnant, and now I like her,’ and it came up. The algorithm knows what I need.”
“That’s great, Sungie,” Chan says dryly. “Really, the internet is a marvel sometimes. But it also picks things that match random words in your search. You can’t trust it blindly.”
Jisung squints at him. “You’re saying a lot of words that mean nothing. So what if it’s American? It’s not like KoreaBoo or Dispatch has one-night-stand advice columns. We’re progressing as a society, but schools still preach waiting till marriage, and how it’s supposed to be this magical experience for girls, so they go in expecting princes and get men who’ve only watched porn and think it’s normal to cum on their face or stick it in their ass.”
Chan pauses mid-sip from Jisung’s americano, blinking slowly. “While yes, you have many valid points about the absolute disaster that is sex education in South Korea, that’s not relevant right now.”
“It’s a little relevant,” Jisung says.
“It’s not,” Chan insists. “Anyway, back on topic, this blog isn’t your story. Those people hooked up, had a kid, fell in love, did the full American dream. Marriage, house, dogs-”
“Happy ending!” Jisung interrupts. “Perfect! Relatable! We hooked up, had the most adorable whoopsie baby, that should be our endgame! But, you know, the Korean version. Maybe not a house, maybe an apartment. Married, dogs, sure, but more kids? No thanks, or at least a lot later. I’ve been pissed on enough times by my son. If I have to get pissed on by multiple little people with half my DNA, I’ll lose my mind.”
Chan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sung-ah, please stop talking.”
“What?” Jisung looks genuinely confused. “I’m saying it’d be great if it ended like that! Love, commitment, maybe a cat or two. I don’t need the American Dream, I just need her.”
Chan sighs again. “And here’s the part where you stop relating entirely.”
“Why?”
Chan holds the phone up, scrolling to the end of the article. “Because, Jisung, plot twist, they were living their American dream only to find out they were half-siblings. Their eommas went to the same sperm donor clinic in Florida.”
Jisung freezes mid-breath. “...What?”
“Same donor. Meaning they have the same appa. Meaning they’re related.”
Jisung’s face contorts in horror. “Ewwwwwww. Oh my- Ewwwwww, fuck, that’s disgusting! They were fucking siblings? Why would someone put that online? What the actual fuck!”
Chan just pats his knee sympathetically. “This is why you read before relating, Sungie.”
Jisung gags dramatically, clutching his stomach. “Hyung, I need to bleach my brain. That’s fucked. That’s so fucked. Why didn’t the title warn me? ‘Falling in Love with My Baby Mama’ should not end with fucking sibling incest!”
Chan shakes his head, laughing. “Maybe fewer blogs, huh? More, you know, talking to real people about your feelings?”
Jisung slumps into the couch, muttering darkly. “I can’t talk to people about my feelings, hyung. They’ll think I’m soft. Or worse, they’ll tell her. I’m not ready for her to know I like her. That’s suicide.”
Chan chuckles, sipping the rest of Jisung’s americano. “Maybe so, but trust me, anything’s better than accidentally getting your love advice from Florida incest blogs.”
Jisung groans, face in his hands. “God, I hate the internet.”
The Alpha Phi living room gleams like a commercial for disinfectant. Minho has clearly been through here, wielding a mop and spray bottle like an exorcist banishing filth. Every time Rayeon visits, Minho cleans the entire floor like he’s preparing an operating theatre, muttering something about “my nephew deserves sterile floors.”
You and Jisung are sitting cross-legged on the spotless rug, surrounded by soft blocks, rattles, and plastic cars that have spilt from the toy box Jisung keeps stashed in his room. He’s wearing a black mesh sports jersey that says “SPORTS” and the number 97 in bold white letters, layered over a white long-sleeve shirt, paired with oversized, distressed black jeans stitched in white. His sneakers are white and blue high-tops with a star design, perfectly coordinated like he planned it. He looks maddeningly good even while sitting in a pile of baby toys.
You’re wearing a fitted blue button-up shirt, unbuttoned slightly at the cleavage and untucked at the bottom so the hem brushes your white mini skirt. Your hair is piled into a loose, messy bun that somehow looks like it belongs on the cover of a lifestyle magazine.
Rayeon, now ten and a half months old, is in full exploration mode, crawling across the polished floor with intense concentration, pausing every so often to grab a toy and wave it triumphantly in the air. He has Jisung’s big brown eyes, that same round-cheeked smile, that mop of soft, dark hair, but your nose and mouth. It’s like looking at a perfect little hybrid of you both, and it makes Jisung’s heart do backflips every single time.
You and Jisung are hiding toys under blankets for him to find, playing a game of “where is it?” Rayeon squeals each time one appears again, clapping his chubby hands. “There it is!” you sing, pointing as Jisung lifts a blanket to reveal a rattle.
“Rayeon-ah, you’re a genius!” Jisung praises, clapping with exaggerated enthusiasm.
Rayeon laughs so hard he tips onto his side, immediately trying to crawl again, his giggles echoing through the room. “Your appa’s dramatic,” you tease, smiling.
“Dramatic? Please, I’m encouraging motor development and cognitive reward recognition,” Jisung argues proudly, then grins. “And, okay, maybe being dramatic about it.”
As Rayeon pushes himself up against the couch, gripping the edge with his tiny fingers, Jisung’s eyes widen. “Oh, oh, look, Y/N! Come on, Rayeon-ah, let’s see those big boy first steps, huh?”
You scoot closer to Jisung, both of you sitting just far enough to give your son space but close enough to catch him. “Come to eomma and appa, Rayeon-ah!”
Rayeon squints at both of you like he’s calculating distance, his brows furrowed in toddler-level concentration. His little legs tremble as he steadies himself. You and Jisung hold your hands out, murmuring soft encouragements.
“You’ve got this, buddy,” Jisung says, smiling so wide it hurts. “Just one step. Come on, you brave little shit.”
“Language,” you murmur with a laugh, though your voice is thick with affection.
Rayeon lets go of the couch, wobbles dangerously, flaps his arms for balance, and then he steps. One. Two. And then he pitches forward. You catch him instantly, pulling him close with a laugh as Jisung cheers, clapping like he’s just scored a touchdown.
“Holy shit, did you see that?!” he yells. “Our son’s a goddamn athlete!”
“He took three steps, Jisung,” you say through a laugh, cuddling Rayeon as he giggles. “But yes, sure, Olympic-level coordination.”
Rayeon claps along with you both, his laughter filling the spotless room. You’re still laughing when a voice rings out from the kitchen.
“What’s this milk in the fridge?” Jeongin calls. “The one in the little plastic bottles? Is it premium cow milk? It’s so good, I put it in my latte!”
You and Jisung freeze, sharing identical wide-eyed horror before dissolving into helpless giggles. “Oh my fucking god,” Jisung wheezes, clutching his stomach and Rayeon, delighted by your laughter, starts laughing too, slapping his hands against your skirt.
Then Seungmin’s voice cuts through the house like a siren of rage. “JEONGIN, YOU DUMB BITCH!”
A confused “What?” echoes back.
“That’s breast milk!”
“Well, duh, from a cow!”
“No, you pabo, that came from Y/N’s lady boobs! That’s Rayeon’s snack, you thieving bastard!”
Jisung collapses backwards, laughing so hard tears stream down his face. You’re doubled over beside him, hand over your mouth, trying not to jostle Rayeon too much or laugh directly in his ear.
From the kitchen, Jeongin’s voice rises indignantly. “Who the fuck says ‘lady boobs’? What the fuck is that about? Are you fifty? Are you an ahjussi?”
“I’m just an awkward gay man!” Seungmin shouts back. “And you’re drinking a human breast milk latte!”
That line detonates the entire house. Hyunjin’s distant howl of laughter echoes down the hallway. Felix shouts, “NOT THE PREMIUM TITTY LATTE!” Chan’s voice follows, frantic. “Who was on maknae watch last? Who let this happen?”
Changbin’s booming reply comes next. “My bad, I didn’t think he’d drink breast milk! I thought at worst he’d draw on the walls again!”
Minho’s voice cuts through with dry calm. “You should all be sterilised.”
In the kitchen, Jeongin declares proudly, “It may be human titty milk, but there’s a reason babies drink this shit. It’s delicious. I’m finishing this latte.”
“You’re a fucking pervert!” Seungmin screeches back.
“I’m a milk connoisseur! Do women sell this? They should. I’d buy it from Y/N-noona!”
“STOP TALKING!” Seungmin roars, his voice reaching banshee pitch. “Y/N-ah is not a milk factory!”
“She’s not a factory, but milk factories just bottle cow milk so-”
“Are you comparing Y/N to a cow?!”
“Well, cows have those nipply things, and Y/N has nipples, so-”
The sharp sound of multiple slaps cuts through the air, followed by Jeongin’s yelps of pain. “AH! STOP! I’M SORRY! I’M-OW! OKAY! I GET IT!”
You whisper, “Oh my god,” between gasps of laughter. Jisung is face down on the carpet, convulsing with giggles, and Rayeon joins in, laughing wildly, clapping his little hands because his parents are hysterical.
And then you glance down and freeze. A damp patch has bloomed across the front of your shirt. “Not again,” you whine softly, pressing your hands against your chest.
Jisung looks up just as you do, immediately snapping his attention back to Rayeon, who’s enthusiastically playing with a plastic rotary phone. He focuses intensely on the baby, his ears already turning red as you dig through Rayeon’s bag for a spare top, and come up empty.
You groan. “Of course I forgot to pack one.”
Jisung clears his throat, rummaging through his own bag. “Here, uh-” He pulls out a folded white sweater. “I have this. Clean. Probably. You can wear it.”
You take it with a grateful smile. “Thanks.”
He spins around like a gentleman while you peel off your shirt and slip the oversized sweater on. When he turns back, your head’s just poking through the neck hole, sleeves hanging long enough to cover your hands. You look absurdly cute, and he feels his pulse jump.
“Your ears are red,” you tease.
Before he can retort, Chan strolls past the doorway, holding a protein shake. “Oh, good, you two have talked! Did Jisung tell you how he tried to figure out his feelings for you by reading an accidental incest story?”
Jisung nearly chokes on air as he starts waving his arms wildly, silently begging Chan to shut the fuck up. You hide your giggles behind your hand as Chan keeps talking, oblivious.
“Yeah, he was reading this American blog about falling in love with a baby mama,” Chan continues conversationally. “Turns out it was about siblings. I told him to stop getting advice from Florida.”
“Channie hyung!” Jisung yells, mortified. “I hadn’t talked about anything! Y/N just leaked through her shirt!”
“Oh,” Chan says, unbothered. “Well, whoops. Sorry, Sungie. At least she knows now, so just ask her on a date.”
Jisung stares, face blazing red. Chan leaves with the casualness of a man who just detonated a bomb and walked away. You’re giggling quietly, still rolling balls for Rayeon to chase. Jisung swallows hard, forcing himself to shift back into his usual cocky self.
“Y/N,” he says, voice steadying.
“Yes, Jisung?” you reply without looking up, rolling another toy ball across the floor as Rayeon squeals and crawls after it.
He grins. “Would you like to go on a date?”
You glance at him then, eyes warm and amused. “I’d like that.”
Rayeon crawls back into your lap at that moment, babbling happily and bouncing as he clings to you, tiny legs kicking. “Oh no,” Jisung mutters, watching as Rayeon starts bouncing with increasing energy. “He’s got his zoomies again.”
You giggle, holding onto the wriggling baby. “Zoomies confirmed.”
Rayeon squeals louder, wriggling free and crawling off again, a tiny blue blur tearing through his toys like a joyful tornado. Jisung laughs softly, watching the chaos unfold. He looks at you and thinks, maybe this isn’t just the start of a date. Maybe it’s the start of something a hell of a lot bigger.
You step up the Alpha Phi driveway, balancing Rayeon on your hip, his tiny fist clutching your necklace as he babbles nonsense syllables into your collarbone. His soft giggles mix with the crisp Seoul air. Jisung jogs down the steps to meet you, black leather jacket catching the sunlight, chain swinging from his belt as he grins at you. “Ya, you look fucking incredible,” he says, slightly breathless, before bending down to grab the folded pram from beside you.
You roll your eyes, amused. “Focus, Romeo. You’ve got pram duty.”
He smirks, hauling it up the steps with dramatic effort. “This thing is heavier than Felix’s ass.”
Rayeon squeals like he agrees, little legs kicking in excitement at seeing his appa. The door opens before you even knock, revealing Minho, hair perfectly styled, house slippers spotless, sleeves rolled to the elbow like he’s about to perform delicate surgery. “You’re late. Give me the small royal.”
You pass Rayeon to him carefully, kissing the baby’s head. “Okay, so his milk bottles are in the baby bag, they need to go in the fridge. There’s baby food in the side pouch, and if he refuses that, you can puree the goguma in the container. His spare clothes are in there, too. Good luck, my condolences, and goodbye.”
You wave and grab your bag before Jisung takes your hand, tugging you out the door before the chaos can begin. Behind you, Minho is left holding Rayeon like a priceless antique while six other members of Alpha Phi gather around him, staring at the eleven-and-a-half-month-old like he’s a ticking bomb.
There’s a long silence. Then Jeongin, with his usual lack of self-preservation, squints and asks, “Okay, what do we do with a baby?”
Chan sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We feed him. And make sure he has a clean nappy.”
Seungmin folds his arms. “Then what? Don’t we need to do something for his brain?”
Hyunjin blinks. “Is something wrong with his brain?”
Seungmin stares at him like he’s an idiot. “No, you big pabo, I mean we have to play with him to enrich his brain so he doesn’t grow up as dumb as you or his appa. Because if he grows up as dumb as Jisung, I’m jumping into the Han with cement blocks around my ankles.”
Minho glares at him, clutching Rayeon protectively. “Don’t talk about suicide in front of a baby!” Before Seungmin can respond, Minho’s face twists. “Oh fuck.” He sniffs the air once, twice, and his expression morphs into pure horror. “I just got hate-crimed by a baby.” He quickly passes Rayeon to Chan. “You’re the leader, you wipe the shitty baby bottoms.”
Chan looks personally victimised. “This is a team effort. Someone pull up a YouTube tutorial.”
Felix is already halfway there “Got one! ‘How to change a baby diaper, step-by-step, no mess guaranteed!’”
“That’s optimistic,” Seungmin mutters, grabbing nappies from the baby bag while Changbin, Hyunjin, and Jeongin hover nervously like unhelpful interns.
Minho unfolds the changing mat onto the floor. “Alright, Chan-hyung, lay him down. Carefully.”
Chan does as told, grimacing like he’s defusing a bomb. Felix reads aloud from the video, “Step one: remove the dirty nappy while holding the baby’s legs gently to avoid- Wait, fuck, don’t let him kick!”
Minho crouches down, pegs a clothespin over his nose with zero hesitation, and reaches for the wipes. “You’re all weaklings.”
Seungmin stands nearby, holding a trash bag open like a nurse’s assistant. “This is the most disgusting shit I’ve ever witnessed.”
Chan’s face contorts as the smell hits him. “Oh my god, what the fuck did this kid eat? Is he on a fucking high-protein diet?”
“Sweet potato,” Felix says calmly, still watching the tutorial. “And pureed chicken, apparently. Oh, and breast milk when Jeongin's not stealing it”
“Smells like a corpse,” Changbin says, gagging from a safe distance.
Minho, determined, wipes with the precision of a man performing sacred ritual cleansing. “Don’t talk while I’m sanitising our collective nephew.”
Hyunjin, meanwhile, has pulled out his phone and is filming the entire ordeal. “For evidence,” he says when Seungmin glares at him.
Jeongin peers into the frame, grinning. “Welcome to National Geographic. Here we observe the Alpha Phi males in their natural habitat, terrified of faeces.”
Changbin joins in immediately. “The leader attempts to contain the creature’s rear-end eruption, while the caretaker with the peg prepares a counteroffensive.”
“Will they survive the stench?” Hyunjin adds in his best documentary voice.
Minho glares at them mid-wipe. “Shut the fuck up before I use this nappy as a weapon.”
Then, just as Minho finishes the last wipe, the air shifts. Rayeon smiles angelically, then decides to piss. “SHIT!” Chan yelps, startled, dropping his hold on Rayeon’s legs. The stream arcs like a water fountain from hell.
“NO NO NO NO-” Felix yells, too late.
It sprays everywhere. Across the floor, over Minho’s perfectly pressed shirt, splattering Chan’s shoulder, Seungmin’s arm, and catching Felix across the chest like a golden baptism. Rayeon wiggles happily, tiny feet kicking like a fountain show at Lotte World.
Hyunjin collapses onto the floor, wheezing with laughter, filming everything. “OH MY GOD- THE PISS JET! HE’S EVOLVED! HE’S A SUPER SOAKER!”
Jeongin can barely breathe, clutching his sides. “THE ARC! LOOK AT THE FUCKING ARC!”
Changbin is crying with laughter, pointing. “That’s my nephew! Precision aim!”
Felix, dripping, stares down at his shirt in horror. “It’s warm. It’s fucking warm.”
Seungmin wipes his face with his sleeve, dead-eyed. “I just got pissed on by a human smaller than my law textbooks.”
Minho, clothes peg still on his nose, looks like he’s dissociating. “I cleaned his ass for nothing.”
Chan groans, holding a hand over his forehead. “Okay, we can’t put a new nappy on while he’s still- shit, he’s still going! Why is he still going?!”
“It’s a hose with no off switch!” Felix shouts, trying to shield himself with a towel that’s two seconds too late. Rayeon, delighted by the chaos, kicks his legs faster, sending another splash across Minho’s cheek.
“FUCK!” Minho yells. “He got me in the mouth!”
The entire room explodes. Hyunjin’s howling so loudly that the camera shakes. Jeongin and Changbin collapse into each other, tears streaming down their faces. Seungmin mutters something about needing to sanitise his soul. Felix is half laughing, half crying. Chan sits cross-legged beside the puddle, staring into the middle distance like a man who’s seen war.
When Rayeon finally finishes, there’s stunned silence, and Minho looks up, dripping, and mutters, “You know what? Next time, Jisung’s paying me hazard pay.”
Hyunjin zooms in on Minho’s ruined shirt. “Worth it,” he snickers.
Felix wipes at his face. “We’re all going to hell.”
Chan groans, running a hand through his hair. “If anyone tells Y/N about this, I’m expelling you all from the frat.”
Hyunjin laughs even harder. “Too late, hyung. I already sent the video to Jisung.”
The Roller Factory Seoul is loud, neon, and alive, a technicolour fever dream of flashing lights, disco balls, and retro roller skates spinning under a haze of glitter. The place smells faintly of popcorn and fabric softener, and the music is a perfect, chaotic blend of Western disco, Korean funk, and early 2000s pop. Couples skate hand in hand, teenagers race each other around the rink, and the lighting shifts from pink to electric blue in rhythmic pulses. You and Jisung walk through the doors, and it feels like stepping straight into a time warp where Seoul met 1979 and decided to never leave.
Jisung whistles low. “Oh, fuck, this is sick. Look at this place, Y/N. Roller disco meets space rave. I love it already.”
You grin, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Your sheer chocolate-brown button-up glints subtly in the light, the matching lace bralette peeking through every time you move. Your high-waisted white jeans make your legs look endless, and the white Converse squeak faintly against the polished floor. You can feel Jisung’s gaze on you before you even look up. He’s trying to play it cool, but he’s failing miserably.
You smile knowingly. “What? Never seen a woman before?”
He laughs, eyes still lingering a second too long. “Not one who looks like she’s about to be my teenage dream and a roller derby champion at the same time.”
You shake your head, amused. “Come on, hotshot, let’s see if you can skate as well as you talk shit.”
He smirks, stepping toward the rental counter, his leather jacket swishing behind him. “Challenge accepted. Let’s do this.”
The guy behind the counter is a bored-looking college student chewing gum with industrial commitment. “Size?”
Jisung leans in. “Two pairs, one in size forty-one, one in thirty-seven.” He pays for both before you can protest, slipping a few extra won into the tip jar.
You arch a brow as he hands you your skates. “You didn’t have to pay, you know.”
He grins. “Please, I’m a gentleman. Don’t ruin my ego.”
You laugh, sitting on one of the long benches. “Sure thing, Casanova.”
You both pull off your shoes, slipping into the skates. It takes a minute of tugging and balancing before the laces are tight enough and you’re standing. The second your wheels hit the ground, you wobble like a newborn deer. “Holy shit,” you mutter, windmilling your arms. “I forgot gravity existed.”
Jisung grabs the bench to steady himself, immediately losing his balance too. “You think you’re struggling? I feel like I’m standing on four bananas.”
You both make your way toward the rink like survivors escaping a disaster zone, gripping the rail the entire time. Jisung manages to wrap one arm around your waist to keep you from toppling while his other hand clings to the barrier like his life depends on it. “I got you,” he says confidently, before nearly sliding forward himself.
You clutch his jacket, laughing helplessly. “You’ve got me? You can barely keep yourself up!”
He grins, puffing out his chest. “Trust me, I’m strong. I carry Rayeon, I can carry you.”
“Oh yeah?” you challenge, wobbling dangerously. “Then carry me off the floor, Superman.”
“I’d love to, but my legs have forgotten how to function.”
The two of you shuffle around the rink, moving at the pace of snails but giggling like kids. People glide past effortlessly, couples hand-in-hand, teens doing spins, some guy in sequins who’s clearly been skating since birth, and Jisung mutters, “Show-offs. All of them.”
“Maybe we’ll get there eventually,” you tease.
“Maybe we’ll die first,” he counters.
Then Elton John’s Saturday Night’s Alright (For Fighting) blasts through the speakers, and your face lights up. Without thinking, you start singing along, voice slipping effortlesly into the melody. Jisung nearly stops in his tracks. “Oh my god. You can fucking sing!”
You shrug modestly. “Not really, just genetics.”
He tilts his head, curious. “Oh yeah? Whose genetics gave you that voice?”
You smile softly, eyes flicking toward him. “My eomma was a singer. I’m a quarter Welsh, her maiden name’s Howell. She was Korean-Welsh.”
Jisung freezes mid-skate. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Y/N. Your eomma is Catrin Howell?” His eyes are wide with disbelief. “THE Catrin Howell? I listen to her songs while I’m working on journalism assignments!”
You laugh, nearly losing your balance. “Yeah, that’s her.”
He stares at you as if you’ve just admitted to being royalty. “What the actual fuck. You’re the daughter of Catrin Howell, and you didn’t lead with that?!”
“She wanted me to sing too,” you explain, smiling wistfully. “Had me in lessons since I could talk. But I realised I didn’t want to do it, so I ditched her dream and followed mine.”
Jisung nods approvingly. “Good. But, uh, does that mean you can still sing?”
You grin. “I can ace karaoke like no one else.”
His jaw drops. “Bold words. You know Alpha Phi dominates Greek Row’s karaoke competition every semester.”
You arch a brow. “Please, I had lessons with Andrea Bocelli once.”
He stares at you. “What the fuck. Okay, you win. I surrender.” Then he laughs. “Favourite norebang song?”
“Anything good,” you say breezily. “Doesn’t matter if it’s Western or Korean.”
“Boo. Cop out,” he teases. “Pick one.”
You think for a moment. “I’ll Make A Man Out Of You. From Mulan.”
“That’s a power choice,” Jisung says, grinning, right before he loses his balance and topples backwards, dragging you down with him.
You yelp as both of you hit the floor with a loud thud. “Ow! My spine’s in the front of my body now!”
Jisung snorts, wincing. “I think my ass just cracked in half.”
You’re both laughing as you scramble back up, clutching each other’s arms for balance. Slowly, you start to find a rhythm, rolling forward without needing the rail. Confidence blooms in your chest as the disco lights swirl. Jisung, in his typical chaotic glory, manages to catch his own skate with his heel and nearly faceplants, but recovers at the last second, one hand hitting the floor in a full Spider-Man pose.
You gasp, clapping. “Oh my god, you look like you just saved New York!”
He grins up at you. “More like I just saved my ego.”
After a few more laps and only two minor collisions, Jisung points toward the glowing bar in the corner. “We need drinks. Liquid courage. Maybe it’ll help our balance.”
You agree immediately, the two of you carefully rolling over and collapsing onto the barstools with exhausted laughter. The bartender greets you with a grin and takes your order, a cocktail for each of you, something fruity and ridiculous that glows faintly under the neon lights.
Jisung takes a sip, sighing happily. “Okay, this is the life. Roller rink, neon lights, hot girl, and-” he gestures dramatically toward the karaoke booths. “Karaoke challenge.”
You arch a brow. “Karaoke challenge?”
He nods solemnly. “Best singer is officially the better parent.”
You snort. “That’s not how parenting works.”
“It is now,” he says with mock authority. “New law. Best norebang score wins.”
“Fine,” you say, rolling your eyes but smiling. “Prepare to lose, Han Jisung.”
You both wobble your way to one of the private karaoke booths, dimly lit, comfortable, filled with plush seats and a massive screen. You kick off your skates, ready to unleash your inner rockstar.
Jisung grabs the remote first. “Okay, I’m starting strong.” He scrolls, selects “Sherlock” by SHINee, and grins confidently.
You watch in genuine surprise as he starts. His voice is flawless, clear, strong, and smooth. He hits every rap verse like a pro, his pronunciation sharp, his energy infectious. You find yourself hyping him up, clapping along, even throwing in harmonies during the chorus.
When he finishes, the machine dings with a perfect 97, and he smirks, leaning back. “Beat that.”
“Oh, I will,” you say, stretching dramatically, rolling your shoulders like a fighter preparing for a match. You grab the remote and flip to the Western section, scrolling until you find what you’re looking for. “River Deep, Mountain High. Tina Turner.”
Jisung tilts his head. “Who?”
You gape at him. “Oh my god, you don’t know Tina Turner?”
He shrugs. “I listen to everything from ballads to death metal, but… no?”
You sigh, shaking your head. “I’m going to fix you.” Then you hit play.
The opening brass hits, bright and commanding. You close your eyes, take a deep breath, and let go. Your voice fills the booth, rich and powerful, hands gesturing, body swaying naturally as you belt every word. By the time you hit the chorus, Jisung is staring at you like he’s witnessing a religious event. He starts snapping along to the beat, grooving with the music, his mouth forming an impressed “holy shit.” You can see him vibing, totally caught up in the soul of it.
When the song slows, your tone softens, velvet and vulnerable, then rises again, sharp and alive. You hit the final note and throw your hands up dramatically as the machine chimes. 100.
You beam, spinning toward Jisung, and he claps, laughing. “Okay, what the actual fuck. That was insane. That song- What was it again? I need that in my life.”
“You seriously don’t know Tina Turner?”
“No.”
You gasp in mock horror. “Ew. First date over.” You hold a hand up in front of his face dramatically.
He laughs, swatting it away. “What? Excuse me?”
“Okay, new study list,” you declare. “Whitney.”
“I know Whitney Houston,” he says defensively.
“You know Whitney, but not Tina? The fuck?”
He shrugs helplessly. “My music taste varies, don’t judge me.”
You start counting off on your fingers. “Tina Turner. Amy Winehouse. Celine Dion. Adele. Search ‘belting songs’ or ‘female powerhouses’ on Spotify. Study them.”
He sits up straighter, mock serious. “Investigative journalist reporting for duty. Researching singing girlbosses. Got it.”
“Good,” you say firmly. “Learn the lyrics. I need to be able to play my playlists in your car, and you need to sing with me.”
He pulls out his phone. “Send me your playlist. I’ll study.”
You airdrop it to him. His phone pings, and he opens it, only to see the number of hours. “Forty-five hours?”
You nod smugly.
“Forty-five fucking hours?!” he repeats, horrified. “There are a hundred different artists on here!”
“Then you better start listening,” you tease.
He takes a deep breath. “I’ve got this. For love and research.”
You grin, sipping your drink. “For love and research.”
His phone buzzes again. He glances down, and his expression changes. “Oh, Hyunjin sent me a video.”
You lean closer. “Play it.”
The video loads, and within seconds, you’re both watching the disaster unfold back at Alpha Phi. Seungmin yelling, Chan gagging, Felix’s horrified, “It’s warm,” and Minho’s slow emotional breakdown. The chaos is cinematic. Then the moment hits, the spray hits Minho’s cheek, and Minho shrieks, “FUCK! HE GOT ME IN THE MOUTH!”
You burst out laughing, clutching your stomach, tears streaming down your cheeks. Jisung collapses sideways on the couch, howling like an unhinged hyena. “Oh my god,” you gasp between wheezes. “Oh my fucking god- Poor Minho!”
“He deserves it for calling me emotionally constipated last week!” Jisung manages, wiping his eyes.
You’re laughing so hard your voice gives out, silent tears streaming as you try to breathe. Jisung looks at you through his own tears, grin wide and genuine. And in that messy, stupid, perfect moment, in a tiny neon karaoke booth in the middle of Seoul, with laughter echoing louder than the music, he realises he’s completely, hopelessly gone for you.
It’s been a year and a half since graduation, and somehow, against all the odds, your chaotic little found family has survived the jump from college life to actual adulthood. You’re now in your second semester of your Conservation Biology master’s at Seoul National, balancing lectures, labs, and motherhood like a circus act with knives. Jisung’s working full-time from home as a junior reporter for The Korea Herald, writing think-pieces and investigative features that earn him praise from his editors and eye-rolls from Minho when he calls them “groundbreaking.” Between the two of you, the days are full, the nights are longer, and peace is a rare and fleeting concept because Rayeon has officially entered the terrible threes with the emotional range of a Greek tragedy.
You, Jisung, Rayeon, Minho, and Seungmin share a four-bedroom house that feels constantly alive with noise and warmth and occasional chaos. It’s a rented place in a quiet street near the Han River, chosen specifically for the number of bedrooms, the open-plan kitchen, and the small backyard where Rayeon can play. Minho had insisted on that part because, as he said, “Every kid needs grass to scream into.” Living with Minho and Seungmin turned out to be the smartest thing you and Jisung ever agreed to. Between Minho’s cooking and Seungmin’s dry legal mind, the household somehow functions.
Chan, Changbin, Felix, Hyunjin, and Jeongin rent a house just two doors down, which means at least four nights a week, everyone converges for giant “family dinners.” It’s loud, messy, half the food burns, and yet everyone insists it’s “tradition.” Jisung once called it “communal therapy via kimchi jjigae,” and no one has corrected him since.
The whole setup actually began before graduation, when Chan, Minho, Hyunjin, and Changbin were already living together, and the rest of you were panicking about housing after uni, and your tenancy on your apartment was coming to an end. They all put their heads together, scouring listings until they found two houses on the same street. Seungmin had made a whole speech about “collective attachment issues masquerading as friendship,” but still ended up combing through both rental contracts line by line because, as he said, “If we’re going to trauma-bond, we’re doing it legally.”
Minho, naturally, played his gay card like it was a diplomatic passport, declaring that if the universe didn’t allow him and Seungmin to live with “the heteronormative family,” it would be homophobia. When Felix protested that he wanted to live with Rayeon and be the “favourite uncle,” Minho just shouted, “Not everything’s about you, twink!” and that ended the debate.
Moving in had been a whirlwind. Jisung spent three sleepless days helping you pack up your old apartment, carrying boxes of baby clothes and your study notes up narrow stairwells. It was the first time he got to live with you and Rayeon full-time. You had a family home now. Two weeks into settling in, though, you found out you were eight weeks pregnant again. You’d cried from shock, Jisung had cried from joy, and Minho had cried from rage. He’d beaten Jisung across the kitchen with a slipper, shouting, “You didn’t fucking learn from the first whoopsie baby?!” Then Seungmin joined in for round two, muttering about “reckless heterosexual behaviour” as he smacked Jisung’s thigh.
Now, three months after the arrival of your daughter, Han Rinae, life has become a new level of loud. When you went into labour, Jisung had nearly fainted while driving to the hospital, so Felix stepped in as your birthing partner. Felix, being calm and composed, balanced Jisung’s energy perfectly. He held your hand, whispered encouragements, and smacked Jisung every time you told him to. Especially when Jisung tried to sneak hits of your gas and air for his own nerves. Chan, Minho, Seungmin, Hyunjin, Changbin, and Jeongin had taken turns babysitting Rayeon back home until they got the message that Rinae had arrived safely. When you three returned home, there were mountains of gifts, clothes, toys, blankets, and a banner reading “WELCOME MINI HAN 2.0.”
Now Rinae’s three months old, and her big brother is a walking storm. Rayeon’s tantrums can sometimes be measured on the Richter scale. He screams, kicks, and bites like a tiny MMA fighter. It’s always over something ridiculous, he wants to eat cat food, he can’t have your phone, or that nap time exists. Once, he cried for twenty minutes because Minho told him noodles can’t be a personality. Sometimes his screams echo down the street so loudly that Felix or Chan show up, holding toys and snacks like negotiators in a hostage crisis.
The paediatrician you and Jisung took him to explained, with calm assurance, that it’s normal for kids to act out more when there’s a new baby, especially toward the parent they’re closest to. “He feels safest with you,” she’d said. Hyunjin, upon hearing this later, had called it “bullshit quackery,” Changbin had grumbled about wasting 80,000 won to be told your son “likes punching his eomma,” and Jeongin had deadpanned that you were “raising a psychopath” until Chan whacked him with a spoon.
The truth, though, is that Rayeon’s big feelings are both heartbreaking and exhausting. When he’s happy, he’s sunshine. When he’s angry, he’s a tiny tornado with teeth. Sometimes his tantrums escalate to biting or kicking you, and while it hurts like hell, you’ve learned to step out of the room when that happens. Jisung leads you away for a breather, showing Rayeon that hurting you doesn’t earn him attention. Then Minho steps in, Rayeon’s self-appointed behavioural coach.
Once you've left, Minho kneels to Rayeon’s level with RuPaul-level dramatic flair. “We were all born naked, and the rest is behaviour choices. So let’s act right in your little Paw Patrol jammies,” he says, perfectly serious. “Facts are facts, Rayeon-ah, and the fact is, you just kicked your own eomma. That’s cancelled. Over. Next!”
Even Seungmin, who tries to stay stern, has to look away to hide his laugh when Minho points dramatically toward the corner. “You wanted drama? You got it, baby! Now, plot twist, you’re in time out. Three minutes. Category is: Tantrum Realness. And baby, this runway is a mess. Zeroes across the board!”
By the time Rayeon finishes his time out, he’s calmer. Minho always brings him to you, where you sit with Jisung and Rinae in the living room. “We were all rooting for you,” Minho says in his best Tyra Banks voice. “How dare you bite your eomma like that?!”
Rayeon shuffles over, tiny face scrunched up in guilt, mumbling, “Sorry, eomma,” before hugging your legs. You scoop him up immediately. No one yells. There’s just calm and softness again, until the next hurricane hits.
Your days are a balancing act. You study part-time, half remote and half on campus, so you spend mornings writing up lab work with a baby asleep on your chest while Jisung types furiously at his laptop across from you. Seungmin leaves early for his law firm internship, always in a crisp shirt, muttering case notes under his breath. Minho, now in his second year of veterinary medicine, is up even earlier, feeding the three cats he rescued, Soonie, Doongie, and Dori. The cats adore Rinae, tolerate you, and plot Jisung’s death.
Between all that, the house still manages to stay functional, mostly thanks to Seungmin’s militant cleaning schedule and Minho’s culinary skills. The four of you rotate chores, but Minho insists on cooking because, in his words, “I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t season aggressively.” Jisung tried once and nearly set the stove on fire while making ramyeon.
You’ve grown even closer to Felix and Hyunjin, who jokingly refer to themselves as your “platonic boyfriends.” Once a week, you go to their house for your sacred MILF night to drink wine, gossip, and complain about Jisung’s habits while they theatrically agree that he’s a menace. Jisung, in turn, gets his own best friend nights with Minho, where the two of them drive around Seoul searching for the city’s best pudding or bubble tea or whatever strange obsession they’ve latched onto that week. Jisung calls Minho his platonic soulmate, and Minho calls Jisung “the heterosexual mistake I can’t return.”
However, their biggest shared nightmare is the unstoppable alliance between you and Seungmin. You’re birthday twins, born the same day and year, and somehow that cosmic coincidence made you both terrifying. When the two of you agree on something, no one stands a chance. If Jisung or Minho argue with their respective partners, the other immediately jumps in. Once, Jisung tried to fact-check you during a debate, and Seungmin literally edited the Wikipedia page mid-argument to make you right.
Changbin still complains about the time he and Seungmin got into a debate over whether whales are fish, and you stepped in on Seungmin’s side, leaving Changbin screaming, “I’m throwing myself into the Han!” while everyone else filmed. Minho likes to joke that he somehow gained a wife, and Jisung always grumbles that he gained a boyfriend he never wanted.
But underneath the chaos, there’s a rhythm. Dinner smells like home-cooked food and laughter. The walls of the two houses ring with noise. There are tantrums, tears, exhaustion, and love in equal measure. The cats occasionally knock over bottles, Rayeon sometimes screams because the sky “looks mean,” and Rinae’s cries fill the house at odd hours, but when you and Jisung collapse into bed at night, surrounded by the sounds of life, it feels right.
You push open the front door, and the sound hits first, a familiar, high-pitched wail cutting through the quiet hum of afternoon in your street. You sigh, shutting the door behind you with your elbow as you balance your LV bag in one hand and slip out of your heels, letting them clack neatly onto the shoe rack. You’ve just finished a Zoom seminar from the Bang-Seo-Hwang-Lee-Yang living room two doors down, because experience has taught you that trying to host anything academic from your own house is a death wish. Last time, mid-discussion about climate change models, your son had burst into the frame to announce that “Appa is pooping.” That particular memory still haunts you in the middle of the night when you can't sleep.
Now, home smells faintly of soy and sizzling meat, and as you walk into the living room, you find Jisung there, cradling your crying three-month-old daughter, Han Rinae, against his chest. His hair’s ruffled, one shirt sleeve rolled higher than the other, and his face holds that exact mix of exhaustion and devotion that defines new parenthood. He’s rocking her gently, murmuring in that deep, warm voice of his that’s always soothed her better than any lullaby. “Hello, nae sarang,” he says, spotting you instantly, eyes lighting up despite the chaos.
“Hello, nae ganghan namja,” you reply softly, setting your bag down as you cross the room.
You lean in to kiss him, just a soft press of lips over Rinae’s downy head. She’s red-faced and squirming, little fists flailing, but the moment your scent hits her, her cries falter into soft hiccups. Jisung breathes out, smiling. “She always knows when you’re home.”
You smile back and brush your thumb across her tiny forehead. “That’s because she’s smart, like her eomma.”
“She’s dramatic, like her appa,” Jisung counters, rocking her again.
You laugh quietly. Rinae’s name had taken you weeks to decide. You and Jisung had chosen the hanja pairing of ‘Ri’, meaning fortunate, and ‘Nae’, meaning graceful. “Fortunate and graceful,” you’d said at the time, “because God knows she’ll need both if she’s anything like her family.” It still feels perfect.
The afternoon light filters through the curtains, soft and warm, catching on the curve of Jisung’s cheek as he finally settles into the couch. You take in the scene for a moment, your partner in cream house slippers, off-white shirt untucked, hair sticking up from where tiny fingers had clearly been grabbing at it. His wide-legged dark cargos are rumpled, his pockets stuffed with tissues, toys, and one baby sock.
Before you can say anything, the thundering sound of small feet on laminate echoes down the hall and Rayeon comes barreling in, hat slightly askew, sneakers squeaking. Dressed in his crisp little outfit, loose white t-shirt, black shorts, black-and-white sneakers, baseball cap, and crossbody bag, he looks like a miniature version of Jisung, right down to the mischief in his grin.
“Eomma!” he shouts, holding up both arms. “Rinae not stop! Just wah and wah! Then Minmin samchon toot and it smell bad! Then Rinae cry more louder!”
You try not to laugh as your son’s story tumbles out like a confession. You glance toward Jisung, who raises an eyebrow, clearly already resigned. “We had to evacuate the kitchen because of Minho-hyung,” Jisung says, deadpan. “I think the cats keeled over. Dori definitely died for a second.”
From the kitchen, Minho’s sharp voice cuts through the air. “I heard that, you little shits!” He appears in the doorway, spatula in hand, glaring murderously. His apron says “Kiss the Chef” in glitter font, and his expression screams “Watch your step.”
Minho narrows his eyes. “Oh, really? Well, Rayeon-ah, who toot-tooted when you came into my room for morning cuddles with your Minmin and Seung samchons today?”
There’s a long pause. “Dori,” Rayeon says finally.
Minho folds his arms, unimpressed. “Try again. We don’t lie in this house.”
“I toot-tooted, Minmin samchon,”
“You did,” Minho says, crouching to his level. “And it was stinky.”
“Was not!”
“Was too. My sinuses are still recovering.”
Seungmin’s voice floats faintly from upstairs, where he’s been working remotely for the law firm. “If I have to testify as a witness to that smell, I’m quitting law.”
You stifle your laughter as Rinae’s small face turns toward you, her eyes wide and shiny. You shift her carefully so her face nestles into the crook of your neck. She breathes in once, twice, and then, as if comforted by your scent, she exhales a small sigh and finally goes quiet.
Jisung raises his hands in mock prayer. “Thank you, holy mother, for your miracle powers.”
You swat his arm lightly, smirking. “You mean eomma powers. Learn the terminology.”
Before he can respond, Rayeon climbs onto Jisung’s back, clinging like a koala. “Appa! Play plane!”
Jisung groans dramatically, pretending to stumble under the weight. “Rayeon-zilla, no! Appa’s old bones!”
You can’t help laughing as he flaps his arms, spinning in uneven circles with your son shrieking happily. Rinae lets out a sleepy coo against your skin, her tiny hand clutching your shirt. You sway gently, humming under your breath. It’s a tune you’ve hummed since she was born, a rhythm that always calms her. Jisung glances your way mid-spin, his face breaking into that same look he gets every time he realises you’re both still here, still together, still somehow making this work.
In the kitchen, Minho’s muttering resumes. “Honestly, this family’s going to be the death of me. I make bulgogi, the baby cries like a fire alarm, and the toddler’s trying to stage a coup all because I farted once.”
“You love it,” Jisung calls out.
Minho scoffs. “I tolerate it for the food budget and the cats.”
Seungmin finally appears at the bottom of the stairs, still in work slacks and a cardigan. “Tolerate my ass. You literally cry when they go to bed early.”
“Fake news,” Minho says immediately.
Seungmin slides onto the couch beside you, smiling softly at Rinae. “She looks more like you every day.”
Jisung, still pretending to be a plane, stops mid-spin and pouts. “Unfair. My genes are strong!”
“They’re just loud,” Seungmin says dryly, earning a snicker from you.
Jisung feigns offence, hand over his heart. “I am deeply wounded, Kim Seungmin-ssi.”
“You’ll live,” Seungmin replies, sipping from his water bottle as Rayeon slides down from Jisung’s back, plopping onto the floor with a giggle.
It’s peaceful, for a moment. The kind of peace you know is temporary, but still treasure. You’ve got Rinae asleep in your arms, her soft breath warm against your collarbone. Minho’s clattering in the kitchen, muttering “gay chef of the apocalypse” under his breath, Jisung’s catching his breath, running a hand through his hair and Seungmin’s scrolling through something legal on his phone, but still half-listening to the conversation.
You don’t notice the quiet change until a small voice shouts from upstairs. “I wipe my bumbum like a big boy!”
Every adult freezes, and there’s a beat of stunned silence before Minho mutters, “Oh, fuck, not again.”
You clutch Rinae tighter as Seungmin and Jisung exchange one terrified glance before sprinting toward the stairs like soldiers rushing into battle. “Rayeon-ah!” Jisung yells, taking them two at a time.
Minho takes one look at you and grabs your elbow. “Retreat. Kitchen. Now.” You nod wordlessly, both of you moving like you’ve trained for this. From upstairs comes the unmistakable sound of panic.
Seungmin’s voice echoes down. “It’s almost to his shoulder blades!”
“What the fuck- How did he even- Rayeon-ah, what did we say about wiping?!” Jisung asks, pure despair in his tone.
“Stop at the top of my bumbum!”
“So why,” Jisung’s voice cracks, “is there poo all the way up your back, bud?!”
A small voice answers, “Whoopsie.”
You and Minho are in the kitchen now, silent except for the soft bubbling of the bulgogi. Then comes the sound of running water, the bath being filled, followed by Seungmin rummaging loudly in the airing cupboard.
“Here, Jisung-hyung,” Seungmin calls, sounding like he’s seen things. “You clean your son’s shit, I’ll bathe him.”
You press your lips together, eyes watering from suppressed laughter. Minho grips the countertop, head bowed, whispering, “I went to vet school for this. I study animal biology, not human biohazard warfare.”
Twenty minutes later, the sound of footsteps descends the stairs. Jisung appears first, hair damp, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, smelling faintly of soap and despair. Behind him, Seungmin follows, holding the freshly scrubbed and pyjama-clad Rayeon, who’s beaming proudly.
“Eomma!” he says, racing up to you. “I wipe my bumbum like big boy!”
“Well done, Rayeon-ah! But next time, ask one of us for help, okay?”
“Okay!” he says cheerfully.
Jisung ruffles his hair, trying to stay serious. “And no more poo on the walls, Rayeon-ah.”
“Okay, appa.”
Seungmin mutters something about needing therapy as he collapses onto the couch, while Minho wordlessly hands Jisung a damp towel to wipe his face. “Parenthood looks good on you,” Minho says dryly.
“Fuck off,” Jisung replies, too tired to care.
Later, when dinner’s ready, and everyone’s eating around the big table, Minho complaining about dish duty, Seungmin scolding Rayeon for trying to feed kimchi to the cats, and Jisung making aeroplane noises to get the toddler to finish his rice, you glance at Jisung across the table. He’s got a smear of sauce on his cheek, eyes soft as they meet yours over Rinae’s little head.
Han Jisung is only twenty-four, with two children under four, a house full of noise, and a life that never slows down. But somehow, he’s holding it all together, the woman he loves, two kids that make him want to cry and laugh in equal measure, his best friends, his found family. He’s still the same idiot who once panicked over baby formula and read co-parenting blogs at three in the morning, but now, watching him here, surrounded by love and laughter, he’s so much more.
He thinks of the way Rinae’s fingers curl around his thumb, the way Rayeon giggles like every sound is a joke between them, the way you look at him when he’s convinced he’s failed and reminds him he hasn’t. He’s got everything that matters. And as he leans back, listening to the chaos unfold, Minho shouting about someone stealing his side dishes, Rayeon laughing, you rolling your eyes at him fondly, he thinks, yeah, this is it.
It’s loud. It’s imperfect. It’s the best fucking thing in the world. And if tomorrow starts with another scream of “Appa! I did poo!” and ends with bulgogi and laughter, well, he can live with that.
23/01 - 5PM GMT - 18+ Patreon Post as a sequel to this fic, and it will be titled: Sweet Like Honey
1 Tier - MANIACS
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