#learned how to swaddle and wrap a baby and everything

[whirlpool-blogs]

“…right here!”

[fandom-random-help]

Lady

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

You knew Simon wasn't ready. At least, that's how it came across to you.

When you announced you were pregnant, he just stood there. There was no protest, no excitement, no nothing. It made you worry initially, but you learned over the course of your realtionship, and even your marriage, that it's just going to take time for it to settle in his mind.

Oh that announcement settled in his mind pretty quick. While he never told you a lot, he made up for it in actions. He kept the house stocked on any and all foods you could've wanted. He bought everything needed to renovate the guest room into a nursery and hid it in the garage until he had enough time to get it all done. He even went as far as to give Price a head's up on the situation and asked to be assigned to short deployments until the baby arrives. Simon wanted to be there almost every step of the way.

When it came time for your eight-week appointment, Simon insisted he'll go with you. Once you both arrived, filled out paperwork, and got called in, he held your hand and followed behind you. You settled on the bed while he pulled up a chair to sit next to you. The ultrasound tech was super nice and kept you calm as she explained every little thing she was doing. After some time, she showed you both the screen.

Simon sat in silence, but inside he was panicing. He knew the baby was there, but seeing them on the screen was a different experience. It was further proof to him that this baby was real, and that he really needed to be the father that he never had. When asked if you wanted to hear baby's heartbeat, you nodded excitedly. The beating sound of the little one's heart was the only noise that filled the room. It rang through Simon's head cementing that yes, there was life. In all honesty, that's what scared him the most. He wanted to protect the baby like how he already protects you, but he knew he wouldn't always be there. He was worried he wouldn't be a good dad.

Simon was gripped and dragged from his spiraling thoughts by your solid hold of his hand. He didn't realize that the tech had left the room and you had gotten cleaned up and ready to go home. The drive home was silent. You kept glancing at Simon, trying to catch a sliver of emotion. It wasn't until you were getting ready for bed that Simon walked up to you and fell to his knees. His arms wrapped around your mid section as if he were sheilding it from the world. You finally felt relaxed as he did this as your fingers played with his short blond hair. You reassured him that everything would be fine and that he would not fail at being a dad.

~8 months later~

You were resting in your hospital bed. The birth of your new little girl was everything and more. Best part was you can now tease Simon about crying as soon as the baby started crying. She looked a lot like you, except for her eyes. Yes, she had her father's big, brown, beautiful eyes. That was the first thing you pointed out to Simon when you finally got the chance to hold her. As for Simon, he was an internal emotional wreck. Everything happened so fast that he couldn't keep up. He felt helpless, but in reality he wasn't. He got you to the hospital, he held your hand, massaged your lower back through every contraction, kept you as comfortable as possible, hell he even gave you words of encouragement the entire time. If you were asked, you would say he a big help during labor.

~At Home~

During the early hours of the morning, Simon was awoken by his daughter babbling in her bassinet. He slipped out of bed as to not wake you up and crept down the hall to the nursery. He leaned over the bassinet to look at his baby. As soon as her brown eyes connected with his, she was bursting with excitement in her little swaddle. Simon let out a light chuckle and picked her up. "Tha' right? You're a little cheery thing aren't ya?" He whispered as she continued to babble. He carried her to the living room and sat down in his recliner. The funny thing about Simon is that he doesn't use baby talk. He talks to his baby girl as if she can already fully understand his words.

"I'm not gonna be here all the time kid. I hope when you're a bit older you can keep an eye on your mom for me." He started his rambling. "I want you to know you can always come to me if you need help. You'll always by my baby, but I want you to grow up and be the strong lady I know you can be;" he paused, "I love ya kid."

You woke up without Simon beside you. You peeked into the nursery, no one. You tiptoed into the living room and finally found your favorite two people. He had your daughter curled on top of his abdomen with the recliner on full recline. You grabbed your phone and took a quick picture of the two. You had it printed out and placed it in your scrapbook. The title? Little Lady.

[nanasrkives]

Navigation : midnight records! the starlight EP! haikyuu EP!

"FOR HER" — Sakusa Kiyoomi

a/n : its official i am entering my baby fever era :) content : GIRL DAD SAKUSA. fluff. post timeskip. headcanon.

Girl dad! Sakusa who doesn’t cry in the delivery room, but when the nurse places her in your arms, you see the change happen in his expression before he even speaks. He stands beside you with one hand resting on the bedrail, still in his zip-up, curls flattened from the long hours, eyes fixed so intently on her tiny face that he barely breathes. You offer her to him, gently, and although he nods and reaches out, it’s with a kind of quiet reverence, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might shatter something fragile. When she’s finally in his arms, wrapped in that standard-issue hospital blanket, he doesn’t look away once. “She’s really ours,” he says after a long silence, voice soft and level like he’s stating a fact that still hasn’t settled in. You’re tired and aching and overwhelmed, but in that moment — watching him fall in love so quietly — you feel steadier than you’ve felt all day.

Girl dad! Sakusa who approaches parenting the way he’s approached everything else that’s ever mattered to him — with focus, with discipline, and with the same determination that made him the top ace in the country. He just does it. He reads every product label, tracks feeding times in his phone, and practices swaddling until the corners lie flat like muscle memory. You find him at night adjusting the baby carrier straps with one of her stuffed animals, narrowing his eyes like it’s something to be mastered. In the nursery, everything has its place: pacifiers in labeled containers, diapers stacked perfectly, bottles washed and sterilized on a rotating schedule that no one asked him to create. He’s not afraid of mess — he’s an athlete, after all — but this kind of order calms him. It’s the only way he knows to make sense of something this overwhelming. When you catch him in the early mornings rearranging the drawer of onesies so the softest fabrics are on top, you don’t interrupt. You just watch because you know that this is how he’s learning to love her.

Girl dad! Sakusa who is the first to notice that post-partum hit you. The way your smile doesn’t quite reach, the way your hands linger over chores but don’t quite start them, the way you keep saying you’re fine even when your voice betrays how deeply tired you are. He doesn’t corner you about it — he just starts making it easier to breathe. He finishes bottles without being asked. He folds laundry without announcing it. He draws a bath and offers you the quiet without implying you owe him anything in return. And when you finally sit down beside him on the bed and admit, barely above a whisper, “I think something’s wrong,” he takes your hand and says, without even flinching. “We’ll take care of it. You don’t have to do it alone.” That night, when the house is quiet, he tucks her in and then tucks you in too, placing your tea on the nightstand and brushing your hair back from your forehead before placing a kiss on your forehead like he’s reminding you that you’re still being held.

Girl dad! Sakusa who keeps her world structured, calm, and clean — not out of fear, but out of habit, and a deep belief that consistency makes kids feel safe. He doesn’t scold when she forgets to wash her hands before dinner. He just walks her to the sink, adjusts the faucet for her, and says, “Let’s try again,” with the same steady tone he uses when coaching a teammate through a play. You can already see how much of him lives in her — not just in her temperament, but in her tiny routines. The way she lines up her shoes by the door. The way she wipes the table with a napkin after dinner. He never told her to do any of that — she just watched him and followed his steps.

Girl dad! Sakusa who always stops what he’s doing when she calls for him. He never rolls his eyes or tells her to wait. Whether she’s holding a drawing she drew or asking him to see the rain outside on the balcony, he gives her his full attention. She brings him stories, toys, questions he doesn’t have answers to yet, and he listens to every single one. Sometimes, she climbs into his lap mid-stretch, legs crossed beneath her, curls sticking to her forehead, and just rests there like she knows there’s nowhere safer. You glance over from the kitchen and watch as he adjusts his posture just slightly to keep her steady, continuing his cooldown stretches like her presence is just part of the routine now.

Girl dad! Sakusa who teaches himself to braid because one morning she tugs at his sleeve and says, "Papa me want hair like Mama” and he doesn’t want to be the kind of father who says i don't know how to something like that. That night, while the house is quiet, you find him on the couch with one of her dolls in his lap, video tutorial paused on his phone, fingers fumbling but determined. He practices until the parts are clean, until the elastics hold. The first few mornings, the braid sits crooked on her head — slipping by lunchtime — but she runs to you saying, “Papa did it !” every single time. When he finally gets it right, she wraps her arms around him like he just won a trophy. And later, when you're brushing your own hair before bed, he watches you for a moment from the doorway, then comes up behind you, fingers gently sweeping your strands aside. “I didn’t realize how much of you she carries,” he says, quiet and sincere. “It makes me want to do everything right.”

Girl dad! Sakusa who brushes through her damp curls with more care than you thought possible. The spirals are his — the same exact texture that still coils around his forehead after a shower — but the color is yours, unmistakable in the morning light. When she’s sitting between his legs and he’s sectioning off her hair into neat parts, you sometimes find him pausing just to look. Not because he’s unsure of the process — he’s got the rhythm down by now — but because every time he sees her, it’s a new reminder that she’s equal parts both of you.

Girl dad! Sakusa who brings her to matches and never says a word about it being a distraction, though you know how seriously he takes preparation. She always sits with you, gripping a wrinkled “Go Papa !” sign in her fists, her legs swinging off the bleachers while she yells his name through a mouthful of fruit snacks. He rarely looks into the crowd — he’s too focused for that — but today, when she screams his name mid-serve, you swear you see the smallest flicker of a smile on his face. After the game, he comes straight to you both, drops to one knee, and listens to her long-winded play-by-play with a patience that makes even the camera crew step back. You take her hand as he packs up his bag, and she says, “Papa did good today !” He doesn’t say anything, but you notice how he walks just a little taller after that.

Girl dad! Sakusa who changes his phone ringtone to a voice memo of her calling for him because he says it’s easier to hear. It plays once during a team meeting and Atsumu nearly falls out of his chair laughing, but Sakusa doesn’t even flinch. “She’s loud,” he says calmly, setting his phone face down on the table, “but she gets my attention.” When you hear it go off at home, it always makes you smile.

Girl dad! Sakusa who never talks about how much he loves being a father — not in words, at least. But you see it in how he shows up. In the way he learns her favorite breakfast, remembers the exact way she likes her blanket tucked in, memorizes the lyrics to a show he pretends to hate. You see it in how he looks at her when she doesn’t notice — like she’s the most surprising, most important thing that’s ever happened to him.

Girl dad! Sakusa who holds her hand tightly on her first day of school, walking her up to the gate with slow, even steps. She’s excited and confident. She lets go of his hand the second she sees her teacher and runs inside without looking back. You expect him to say something — maybe a joke, maybe a quiet sigh — but instead, he just stands there for a long moment. When you brush your fingers against his, he finally speaks. “She didn’t even turn around.” You lean your head on his shoulder and whisper, “She''s growing up.”

2025 © NANASRKIVES. / do not copy, repost, edit, plagiarize, or translate any of my works on any platforms, including ai.

TAGLIST (OPEN). / @ayatakanosstuff @angelkiyo @itsmeaudrieee @laaalaaaloooppppsiiieeeee @dazaisfavgf @virgothesimp @kurooangel @evamame

[sweetstrawberryys]

“Double the Love”

— Task Force 141 x Pregnant!Reader

Reader shows the ultrasound but plot twist it's TWINS!!

Masterlist

---

Captain John Price

You’d barely made it back from the ultrasound before John noticed something was different.

“You alright, love?” he asked, sliding off his coat and placing his hand instinctively over your belly.

“I’m fine,” you said, lips trembling into a smile. “But I do have some news.”

You handed him the sonogram — this time, with two tiny figures on the screen.

He stared.

Then looked again.

“…There’s two.”

“Twins,” you whispered.

For a long moment, he said nothing. Just stood there, in quiet awe. Then he walked over, gently cradling your face in his calloused hands.

“Two heartbeats.” He swallowed. “Two little pieces of us.”

He kissed you — slow, reverent — like you were a miracle.

“I didn’t think I could feel luckier than I did the day you said you loved me,” he whispered. “But you just proved me wrong.”

---

Simon “Ghost” Riley

He’d always been quiet with his affection, but this was different.

You showed him the updated scan and waited in silence as he stared.

He didn’t speak.

You started to panic. “Simon, I—”

He reached out slowly, as if the paper was too fragile for his hands. His thumb brushed over the image of two tiny shapes.

“…Twins?” His voice cracked.

You nodded, eyes welling up. “Yeah.”

He sat down heavily on the couch, jaw tense, mask pushed halfway up.

“I never thought I’d have one family… let alone three.”

You moved to sit beside him, and he pulled you gently into his arms, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I’ll protect all of you. With everything I have. Always.”

And when he placed a hand on your belly, there was a warmth in his touch you’d never felt from him before.

---

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

You thought the man couldn’t be more dramatic.

Then he found out you were having twins.

He stared at the ultrasound photo, mouth agape. “Two? Are you sure that’s not just one doing a somersault?”

“Positive,” you laughed.

He let out a breathless laugh, running both hands through his hair. “Well, hell. Guess we’re skipping right past chaos and going full mayhem.”

But then he looked at you — really looked — and all the wild, playful energy melted into something quieter.

He knelt in front of you, resting his head gently against your stomach. “You’ve given me more than I ever deserved. And now, double.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, heart full.

“Guess I’ll have to learn how to swaddle two babies while holding a gun, huh?”

You snorted.

“And I wouldn’t trade a single second of it.”

---

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

He was already the softest of the bunch, but this? This floored him.

You handed him a wrapped frame, and he unboxed it carefully — revealing the sonogram labeled: “Baby A & Baby B.”

He froze, eyes wide, lips parted. “Is this real?”

You nodded, heart pounding.

Gaz sank onto the couch, stunned, then started laughing — soft, overwhelmed laughter. “Two of them. Two.”

He pulled you into his arms, peppering kisses along your forehead.

“This means double the diapers,” he whispered between kisses. “Double the crying. But also… double the snuggles. Double the bedtime stories. Double the love.”

You melted into him, feeling safer than ever.

“I can’t wait to be the dad they deserve,” he said against your hair. “I’ll give them everything.”

---

Alejandro Vargas

He cried.

Not loudly — just the kind that sneaks up and steals your breath.

You handed him the sonogram with trembling fingers, watching as he studied it. When he realized what it meant, his eyes slowly filled.

“Dos?” he asked softly. “Two little hearts?”

“Yes.”

He sat down beside you, pulling you into his arms with infinite care. “You are a goddess, mi vida. You carry two souls inside you. How can I ever thank you for this gift?”

“You don’t have to,” you whispered.

“But I will,” he replied. “Every day, for the rest of my life.”

He placed a reverent kiss to your stomach, tears glistening in his lashes. “They are already so loved.”

[holyblonded]

strawberry swing | always sunny in australia

pairings: sam kerr x teen!reader

summary: the story of chickie

warnings: foster care, social workers, abandonment

notes: before anyone accuses me of fucking trauma porn again (smd) most of my characters backstories reflect my own experiences. so leave me alone 😀

Your birth is a mystery.

There’s no hospital certificate, no photos of a baby wrapped in a blanket with proud parents smiling beside her. No recorded time of birth, no gentle whispers of a name chosen with care. You were surrendered at a fire station in Perth just a few days after coming into the world—tiny, blinking up at the fluorescent lights, swaddled in a blanket and left in silence. The only thing anyone knows is the date you were found: September 3rd.

So that became your birthday. You’ve never celebrated the actual day you were born, but September 3rd became a symbol of something different, survival. Existence. The day someone, somewhere, decided you deserved a chance. And so, when you started playing football, it was only natural to wear the number 3. Not because it was lucky. Not because a hero wore it before you. But because that number was yours. A reminder that you made it. That you’re still here.

You were placed in foster care right away. At first, everything was a blur, faces came and went. Families with different smells, different rules, different ways of making dinner. You learned not to unpack too deeply. Not to leave your clothes in drawers. Not to get too comfortable with anyone’s pets or start calling someone “Mum”. You learned how to adapt, how to nod when spoken to, how to keep a tiny part of yourself locked up and protected.

But then came the Patels. Mr. and Mrs. Patel were older, their children grown and long moved out. Their home was warm in the way that made your shoulders drop as soon as you walked in. The first night you stayed with them, you were so quiet that Mrs. Patel brought you warm milk with honey and sat next to you on the couch without saying a word. Mr. Patel gave you a bedtime story and called you “little one” with such affection it made your throat ache.

You were five years old, and for the first time, you felt like a child.

They never treated you like a charity case. You weren’t just a number in a file or a check from the government. You were their kid. Mr. Patel taught you how to garden, even though you pulled up the carrots too early. Mrs. Patel showed you how to make roti, guiding your little hands with gentle patience. They gave you a bedtime. They taught you to fold your clothes. They came to every parent-teacher meeting.

And when they saw you running circles around the backyard with a half-deflated ball tucked under your arm, Mr. Patel chuckled and said, “We’ve got a little footballer on our hands.”

So they signed you up.

You still remember your first match. You were wearing hand-me-down cleats that were a little too big, shin guards that kept sliding, and a jersey two sizes too long. But you were buzzing with excitement.

“Go, sweetie! Run, run, run!” Mrs. Patel called from the sideline, her voice high and delighted.

“To the goal! That’s it!” Mr. Patel shouted, jumping up and down like he was the one sprinting across the pitch.

You scored. It was messy, a bit lucky, and absolutely glorious. When you turned to the sideline, they were both clapping like you’d just won the World Cup. That moment was burned into your heart forever. Not the goal—them. The way they looked at you like you were something special.

But good things, you learned early, don’t always last.

By the time you were seven, Mr. and Mrs. Patel were struggling. Their age had caught up with them. Mrs. Patel’s arthritis made mornings difficult. Mr. Patel was having trouble keeping up with appointments. And the social worker gently, apologetically, told you it was time.

You didn’t say a word as you packed your things. Just a small duffel bag. The rest had always been borrowed.

Mr. Patel gave you a hug that lasted longer than it should’ve. Mrs. Patel tucked a little hand-stitched elephant into your pocket — “For courage,” she said, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

The drive away from that house was one of the longest of your life. You curled up in the backseat, forehead against the window, watching the world blur by. Michelle, your social worker, kept glancing at you in the mirror. You didn’t cry. Not then. Your chest felt like it had caved in.

But then you whispered, almost too softly to hear: “Wherever I go from here… I want to keep playing football.”

Michelle didn’t blink. She just nodded, voice steady. “I can do that for you.”

And she did.

No matter how many places you bounced around after that, she made sure there was always a ball at your feet. Always a field. Always something to hold onto.

You were small, and angry sometimes, and too stubborn for your own good. But you never stopped playing. Never stopped believing that maybe, just maybe, one day, you’d find another place that felt like home.

And until then, you had football. You had the number 3, you had yourself, and most importantly you had the fire to survive.

You were used to doing things on your own. By thirteen, you had already lived more lives than most kids your age. You had lived in group homes and in strangers’ guest rooms, unpacked your bag more times than you could count, and learned how to get to practice no matter the distance. If it meant walking an hour, hitching a ride with someone’s cousin, or kicking around in a parking lot with a half-flat ball, so be it. You didn’t complain. Football made you feel alive, like you were more than your case number, more than another kid shuffling through the system. It reminded you that you were good at something.

But when you were turning fourteen, everything shifted.

You were placed with Edison and Savannah Mulberry, a well-off couple in Perth with a house full of sunshine, a garden that actually looked like a garden, and the biggest flatscreen you’d ever seen. They reminded you so much of Mr. and Mrs. Patel it almost hurt at first. Savannah hummed while she cooked and called you “sweetheart” from the moment you walked in the door. Edison was the type to high-five you every time he saw you and blast music from the speakers in the kitchen while making pancakes.

And best of all? They were massive Tillies fans. Not the fake kind, not the people who tuned in once a year for the important and barely knew any names. No, Edison could rattle off stats for every player, and Savannah had a scarf signed by Lisa De Vanna from years ago. When they found out how serious you were about football, it was like Christmas had come early. They bought cones and pop-up goals. They cleared out the garage so you could store your gear. Edison went full soccer dad mode, showing up to every training, every match, yelling like he was the coach.

You were embarrassed at first. Then, you secretly loved it.

And one weekend, they brought friends with them to one of your matches. Roger and Roxanne Kerr.

You didn’t know who they were at first, just that they were really friendly, smiled a lot, and seemed to know everything about football. Edison was buzzing with excitement, talking you up before the match like you were already a professional. You tried not to let it get to your head. But you did what you always did when you stepped on the pitch: you balled out.

You scored two goals. Assisted another. Broke ankles. Ran the game like you were born to do it.

After the final whistle, Roger and Roxanne came up to you, all smiles.

“That was brilliant,” Roger said, giving you a little clap on the shoulder.

“Seriously, you were everywhere,” Roxanne added. “So much composure for someone your age.”

You muttered a quiet thank you, looking at your shoes, trying not to blush. Edison, of course, was already grinning like he won the lottery.

“I told you she was good!” he said, practically bouncing. “She’s got something, doesn’t she? The instincts, the footwork, the mind for it!”

They smiled, nodded, clearly impressed. You didn’t realize how important their opinion was. Not until you got home.

Because Sam Kerr, the Sam Kerr, their daughter, happened to be visiting that week.

Over dinner, Roxanne casually said, “You should come to her next match, Sam. The kid’s got something special.”

“Really?” Sam asked, half-interested as she chewed. “Alright. I’ll come.”

You didn’t know she was going to be there. You didn’t know Tony Gustavsson, coach of the Matildas, would be there too.

You were just playing. And again, you crushed it. Another goal. Two assists. Dominating the midfield like it was your backyard. You played with joy, freedom, and a touch of feral hunger, like you had something to prove and nothing to lose.

From the stands, Sam leaned over to Tony.

“We need her,” she said. “She’s a freak. But she’s only thirteen.”

Tony didn’t take his eyes off you. “She’s fourteen in a month,” he said with a smirk.

That was the beginning of it.

Sam wasn’t someone who half-did things. If she believed in you, she believed in you. She spent the next month in Perth during a break from club and national duty. And instead of resting, she spent it with you.

She started by casually showing up to your training sessions. Then she offered to play one-on-one. Then she took you to this corner café you loved, where they had killer sandwiches and live acoustic music on Fridays. You opened up slowly, walls still high, trust still tentative, but she didn’t push. She just stuck around. She teased you when you tripped over your own shoelaces, taught you how to loft a ball with your laces perfectly, listened to your favorite playlists. You even made her watch some dumb rom-com you liked, and she didn’t complain. Much.

One afternoon, you showed her your favorite view of the city, up this trail behind the local park. You told her about the Patels. You told her about walking hours just to play. She didn’t say anything for a while.

Then she said, “You’re tough as nails, huh?”

You shrugged. “I just love the game.”

Sam smiled. “Yeah. I can see that.”

By the end of the month, she had gotten your favorite cookies, these fancy ones from Sydney that were nearly impossible to find, and gave them to you on your birthday.

“Happy fourteenth,” she said, grinning. “Now come play for the national team.”

You hesitated. But something in you trusted her. So you said yes. Everything felt like it was finally falling into place.

Until it wasn’t. Just weeks before your official call-up, Edison had a sudden heart attack. He survived, but it was serious. Savannah was overwhelmed, struggling to keep up with his care, and social services stepped in.

You were going to be moved again. It was a gut punch. After everything. After hope. After belonging.

You sat in the office, arms crossed, bracing for another round of disappointment, when Sam stood up out of nowhere and said, “She’s not going back into the system. I’ll take her.”

You whipped your head toward her. “What?”

“I’ll take you,” Sam repeated. “You’ll stay with me.”

“No,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “You’ve got enough going on. You’re— You’re Sam Kerr. You don’t have time to—”

“I’m not letting this happen to you,” she said firmly. “You don’t have to keep starting over. Not this time.”

And just like that, she became your legal guardian.

You cried when you signed the paperwork. Sam pretended not to see, just ruffled your hair and said, “Alright, let’s get you packed. You’ve got a debut coming up.”

You never said it out loud, but in that moment, you stopped surviving.

And for the first time in your life�� you started living.

[seospicybin]

EVERMORE.

PROLOGUE

Bangchan x reader x Hyunjin. (s,f,a)

EVERMORE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When your daughter’s wedding weekend brings you, a former it-girl and Chris, a legendary rockstar back under one roof, the two of you must navigate old memories, unexpected feelings, and the chaos of family. As laughter, love, and a hint of scandal unfold, you're both reminded that some love stories don’t end—they just change shape. (16k words)

Author's note: You guys asked for Hyunchan so here you go. As always, hope you enjoy it and don't forget to share your thoughts after ♡

Rock Royalty Welcomes a New Heir: Chris Bang Becomes a Father October 13, 2000 — by Robert Yang. Move over, guitars and groupies—Bang Theory’s wild-hearted frontman Chris Bang is now a dad. The 23-year-old rockstar and his longtime partner, beloved 90s "It Girl", welcomed their first child into the world early this morning at a private hospital in Seoul. A healthy baby girl named Tigerlily was born at 5:47 AM, weighing in at 3.1 kg, just hours after Chris wrapped his set at the Soundscape festival. “He cried. Both of them did,” a nurse from the delivery room said. “He looked more nervous than on stage.” Despite being known for his stage dives, pyrotechnics, and tabloid-worthy antics, insiders say the famously untamed musician turned into “a complete marshmallow” the moment he held his daughter for the first time. “She's got his nose and her mother’s everything else,” a source close to the couple shared. The pair has yet to release an official photo, but fans are already flooding forums with love and name guesses—though Tigerlily, a bold and whimsical choice, feels perfectly on brand for the iconic couple. No word yet on whether this new chapter means a break for Bang Theory, but one thing’s certain: Chris Bang just had his loudest, most life-altering debut yet. Rockstar? Yes. But now… Dad.

-

Tigerlily came into the world on a rainy Tuesday in October. The sky cracked open like a dramatic cue, thunder shaking the windows of the hospital room while you clutched the sides of the bed, barely old enough to drink but old enough to know your life was about to change forever.

You were twenty-two. The industry's darling, all soft glam and sharp edges, gracing every magazine cover and walking every red carpet with a gaze that dared people to look twice. Chris had just come off a whirlwind tour with The Bang Theory the rock band that had somehow become the voice of a generation overnight—gritty, golden, and chaotic in a way only the 90s could pull off.

He didn’t make it in time. Missed the delivery by two hours, stuck in a storm somewhere between the airport and the hospital. But when he burst through the hospital doors, hair damp and chest heaving, the world slowed down for just a second.

And then—Tigerlily.

Born screaming, like she already knew how loud the world could be and wasn’t afraid of it. She had your mouth and his eyes and the softest tuft of dark hair, like velvet. She stared at you both like she’d been waiting lifetimes to meet you.

She was born with the kind of name that sounded like she came from a song. And maybe she did. Bang Chan insisted on it—“She’s going to be a force,” he said. “She needs a name that doesn’t sit quietly.”

And she never did.

For the first five years of her life, her world was a tour bus. Not playgrounds or preschool, but green rooms and stadium seats. You learned how to swaddle her with one hand and fix your eyeliner with the other. She’d nap through soundchecks and dance barefoot on stage during rehearsals, curls bouncing as she clutched her little stuffed bunny.

She loved the hum of the road, the neon-lit nights, the way her dad would scoop her up mid-song and let her press her tiny hands over his guitar strings. She called every band member “uncle,” and by the time she was four, she could identify a Fender Strat by sight.

Sometimes, you worried she was missing out on normal things. But then you'd see her curled up in Chan’s lap as he strummed lullabies that weren’t written for the charts, or the way her eyes lit up when the crowd sang back to him.

She was safe. She was loved. And she was extraordinary.

And now, she stands under the golden light of a university auditorium, dressed in a powder blue gown, clutching her art degree in hands that once clung to your hair as you sang her to sleep.

You sit in the front row, surrounded by strangers, with pride ballooning so hard in your chest you think you might float right off the seat. Chris isn’t here—touring again, or producing, or lost in some other corner of the world. You’re used to it by now. So is Tigerlily.

Still, you clap until your hands sting, tears slipping silently down your cheeks.

She didn’t just survive the whirlwind you brought her into—she bloomed in it. And in that moment, you realized—you didn’t just raise a daughter. You raised a woman who knew exactly who she was.

You wait just outside the auditorium, clutching a bouquet of Tiger Lilies—just like her name. The kind she used to doodle in the margins of her notebooks as a kid once she knew she is named after the flowers. The crowd spills out around you in waves: parents with cameras, graduates in gowns, professors in velvet hoods, all buzzing with joy and relief. But you only have eyes for her.

And then—there she is.

Tigerlily spots you instantly, weaving through the crowd with that effortless grace she must’ve inherited from someone else entirely. Her gown flows behind her like a cape, and when she reaches you, she throws her arms around your neck without a word.

You breathe her in. She still smells like vanilla and that earthy perfume she never leaves the house without. You hold her a little tighter than you mean to.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper into her hair, blinking fast against the sting in your eyes.

She pulls back with a bright, tear-glossed smile. “Tulips,” she says, beaming. “You remembered.”

“I always remember.”

You hand her the bouquet, watching as she presses her nose into them with a soft sigh. For a second, you think you’ve made it through without a cloud. But then—

“Did Dad text you?”

The question comes gently, not accusing—just hopeful. You hesitate.

You shake your head. “No. He couldn’t make it.”

Tigerlily’s smile falters for the briefest second, but she nods like she was already bracing for it. She always was good at bracing. “Yeah,” she murmurs. “I figured.”

You reach up and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear the way you used to when she was five and nervous about her first ballet recital. “He’d be here if he could. You know that, right?”

She shrugs, looking down at the tulips. “I guess.”

You give her a soft nudge with your elbow. “He’s probably somewhere feeling miserable about it. You know how dramatic he gets. I’m sure he’s got his face buried in his hands, whispering lyrics about lost time into a notebook.”

That earns you a smile—small, but real.

“Anyway,” you continue, linking your arm through hers. “We have a reservation at Monarch. I even bribed them for extra truffle fries.”

“You never bribe restaurants,” she says, narrowing her eyes at you.

“Well,” you say, leading her toward the sidewalk, “you only graduate from college once. And we’re celebrating you. No distractions, no missed moments.”

Tigerlily squeezes your arm, resting her head on your shoulder as you walk.

“Thanks, Mom.”

You smile softly. “Always, my little cub.”

-

The restaurant is glowing, lit with soft amber lights that reflect off the polished windows and make everything feel a little more golden than real life. You guide Tigerlily through the front doors, her gown bunched in one hand, bouquet in the other, cheeks still rosy from all the congratulations.

“You really booked Monarch?” she whispers, wide-eyed. “You never let me eat here growing up.”

“You never had a degree before,” you murmur with a small smile. “Besides, I figured you deserved something special tonight.”

The host greets you with a polite nod and gestures toward the back corner booth, the one with the plush velvet seats and the view of the city through the tall windows. Tigerlily starts forward, then pauses.

Someone’s already there.

He’s sitting casually, fingers tapping against a water glass, hair pushed back like he just walked off a photo shoot—still effortlessly cool after all these years, even with the faint silver near his temples that he’s stopped trying to hide.

Chris.

Tigerlily stops in her tracks, staring for a beat too long.

“Dad?”

Chris stands up slowly, a crooked grin pulling at his lips. “Hey, little cub.”

Her bouquet hits the table with a soft thud as she launches toward him.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed and grinning as you watch her collide into his chest with all the force of a girl who may have been preparing herself for disappointment, but never quite stopped hoping.

“You told me he wasn’t coming!” she shouts over her shoulder, arms still around her dad’s neck.

You shrug, stepping further into the room. “Well, it’s called a surprise for a reason.”

Chris laughs as he holds her tighter, eyes closing for a second like he’s breathing her in. Like the years he’s missed are pressing against him all at once.

You stand quietly by the table, taking them in—the way her arms wrap around him like she did when she was small and sleepy, always reaching out for one more hug, one more story, one more night tucked between the two of you on a too-small tour bus mattress.

She always was a daddy’s girl. You murmur it to yourself, too soft for anyone to hear. “She still is.”

And for a moment, you forget all the complications. Forget the past, the missed birthdays, the growing distance. All you see is your daughter, glowing with joy, exactly where she’s supposed to be.

Dinner arrives in warm, fragrant waves—plates of truffle fries, roasted duck, handmade pasta that glistens under the golden lights. The booth feels like its own little world, wrapped in velvet and candlelight and the soft murmur of clinking glasses in the background.

Chris sits across from you, Tigerlily nestled between you both like she’s still your little girl, even if she’s outgrown everything but her stubbornness. She’s glowing with the kind of joy that makes her look younger and older all at once.

“So,” Chris says, setting down his fork and looking at her with that proud, slightly overwhelmed expression he wears every time he sees her after too long. “What’s next, cub?”

Tigerlily leans back, reaching for her water glass. “I’ve got a few freelance gigs lined up. Illustration work. Book covers, a couple zines.”

Chris lets out a low whistle. “Look at you. Graduating and conquering the world.”

“I learned from the best,” she says, her eyes darting between the two of you.

You smile but stay quiet, sipping your wine and letting them talk. Chris starts telling her about the band—how The Bang Theory is planning a small reunion tour, something acoustic and intimate, “just for the old fans,” he says, though you know he still lives for the stage.

“How about you?” he asks, his eyes landing on you. “Are you working on something right now?”

You glance at him, caught slightly off guard by the way his attention shifts so effortlessly from Tigerlily to you—gentle, but direct. Like he hasn’t asked in years, but he’s always been curious.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. A new book,” you add quickly, chuckling. “It's the same old thing with me.”

Chris grins, eyes crinkling in that way that used to undo you. “Of course,” he murmurs. “You’d make it sing, no matter what.”

Before you can respond, he reaches out—just casually—and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. It’s a simple gesture, something he’s done a thousand times, but it feels different now. Familiar, yes. But also fragile. Like it belongs to another version of yourselves.

You glance down, and Tigerlily watches it all with a knowing little smile curling at the edge of her lips. She doesn’t say anything. She just picks up another fry, pops it into her mouth, and mutters around her grin, “You two are so obvious.”

You both look at her—startled, defensive, amused.

“What?” Chris says, eyebrows raised.

“I didn’t say anything,” she sings, tossing you a wink. “Just... observing.”

You and Chris exchange a glance—brief but loaded.

And for a flicker of a moment, something shifts. Not loudly. Not urgently. Just... there. Still alive. Still quietly beating.

Not wanting to let it carry you on, you shift the attention back on him as curiosity taps at your shoulder.

“So,” you say, tilting your head and setting your glass down gently, “how’s Rowan?”

“Busy,” Chris answers a little too quickly and you didn't expect less since you're asking about his wife but you notice his expression shifts—just slightly. “She’s working on a TV series right now.”

“That’s wonderful,” You say as you nod, reaching for your glass of wine. “How about Riley?”

“She’s good,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Fourteen now. Which is… a whole thing.”

You smile softly. “Puberty, huh?”

“Puberty. Mood swings. Existential dread. She’s got this journal she guards like it's the nuclear codes. One second she’s hugging me and the next I’m the reason for global warming.”

You laugh, leaning back into the velvet booth. “Sounds like a riot.”

Chris sighs, but there’s affection beneath it. “She’s just at that age where everything feels like the end of the world, you know? I’m trying, but… I don’t think she knows where to put me right now.”

You nod gently, your fingers curling around the stem of your wine glass. “At least you didn’t have to go through that phase with Tigerlily,” you say with a teasing smile. “She skipped all the angst and went straight to being perfect.”

Tigerlily’s jaw drops, scandalized. “Excuse me?”

Chris laughs, leaning forward in anticipation.

“Mom,” Tigerlily says with a warning tone, narrowing her eyes. “Don’t you dare bring up—”

“—the blue eyeliner phase?” you interrupt sweetly. “Or the time you tried to cut your own bangs and cried for three hours?”

Chris nearly chokes on his water, face lighting up. “Oh my god, yes!” he laughs. “I remember that! She came with a hoodie on and wouldn’t take it off for two days!”

Tigerlily groans, burying her face in her hands. “This is actual betrayal.”

You’re laughing now, shoulders shaking as you reach over to pat her hand. “You were still cute. Even when your bangs were... slanted.”

Chris grins across the table, eyes sparkling. “She’s always been cute.”

Tigerlily lifts her head, glaring at you both. “You two ganging up on me is a hate crime.”

You share a look with Chris—soft and easy and full of old inside jokes—and for just a second, the world feels like it used to: three of you on the road, laughing about eyeliner and heartache, living out of suitcases and old songs.

Tigerlily’s still grinning though, even through her mock-offense. “God,” she mutters, shaking her head. “I forgot what it’s like when you two are in the same room.”

The plates are nearly empty now, forks slowing down as conversation takes over. Tigerlily is laughing at something Chris said about a funny episode happened at a show, and you're quietly sipping what’s left of your wine, content to just watch them exist like this—bright and close and connected.

Then Chris checks his watch with a sigh, the familiar shift in energy settling over the table. The end of the night.

“I’ve got to head out,” he says gently, looking toward Tigerlily with a reluctant smile. “Early flight to Tokyo. I'm helping this band with producing.”

Tigerlily pouts, her bottom lip pushing out the way she used to when she was five and didn’t want him to leave for tour. “Already?”

He opens his arms, and she rises without hesitation, burying herself in his chest like she’s still that little girl on the road, climbing into his bunk after shows. “Come here, little cub,” he murmurs into her hair, voice muffled but warm.

His arms wrap tight around her, his hands moving gently up and down her back in slow, comforting strokes. You watch from your seat, quiet and still, as he leans down to whisper something in her ear—something only for her. Her eyes flutter closed, lashes brushing against her cheeks, and she nods without speaking.

He presses a kiss to her temple before pulling back. “I’m proud of you,” he says, with a smile that breaks a little at the edges. “Always.”

Tigerlily wipes quickly at her eyes. “Text me when you land.”

“Promise.”

Chris turns to you next, his expression softening even further. He steps closer, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. “Thank you,” he says. “For tonight. For putting this together. I didn’t know how much I needed this.”

You wave a hand, trying to brush it off like it’s nothing. “It wasn’t a big deal.”

But when your eyes meet, there’s something there—unspoken but tangible. Like a thread still connecting you, stretching quietly between what you were and what you still might be. You’re the one to look away first, afraid if you don’t, you’ll forget yourself. Again.

He opens his arms, and this time it’s you stepping into them. The hug is brief, practiced, safe—but the warmth is real. His scent is still the same, something familiar and distant that tugs at the back of your throat.

“Take care,” you say softly, pulling back.

“You too,” he murmurs, before walking away.

You and Tigerlily step outside together just in time to see his car pull away from the curb, red taillights fading into the evening traffic. The moment stretches in silence until Tigerlily leans her head on your shoulder.

You wrap an arm around her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her temple. “It’s moments like this,” you murmur, “that make me wish I could’ve given you the kind of family you deserved. One that stayed whole.”

Tigerlily doesn’t move for a second. Then she lifts her head, frowning a little. “But I did get a family,” she says. “Just a different kind. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

You hold her a little tighter, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze to ground you and in that moment—standing in the glow of the city lights, hearts full of love and loss—you let yourself believe that maybe different wasn’t always a bad thing.

-

The cursor blinks accusingly at the top of your blank document, waiting for you to stop procrastinating and start delivering something brilliant. You rub at your temples and glance at the email from your agent again—third reminder this month.

Hey, just checking in again on that chapter draft. Hope everything's alright. Deadline's creeping up—let me know if you need anything!

You sigh, reply with a vague promise of "soon" and click out of the inbox. But right as you're about to close your browser, something catches your eye.

A headline.

The Bang Theory Frontman Chris Bang and Wife Rowan Announce Divorce After 15 Years of Marriage

There’s a photo of them beneath the headline—Rowan in oversized sunglasses, Chris beside her, jaw tight. They look distant. You don't even need to read the article to know that smile on his face is the one he wears when he’s pretending everything’s fine. Still, you click.

The article is full of vague statements from publicists and “sources close to the couple.” Nothing scandalous. Just the usual—“growing apart,” “amicable,” “focused on co-parenting their daughter, Riley.”

You’re halfway through skimming the quotes when your phone suddenly rings, the sharp sound startling you so much your mouse skitters across the desk.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Mom!” Tigerlily’s voice is bright, a little rushed, like she’s walking fast somewhere. “Hey, is it okay if I bring someone over for dinner tonight?”

“Of course,” you say instinctively. “Anyone I know?”

There’s a pause. “Not yet. But you will.”

Your brow lifts. “Should I be nervous?”

Tigerlily laughs. “No. Maybe. A little. But mostly no. Love you!”

Before you can ask anything else, she hangs up. You stare at your phone for a second, then set it down beside your laptop.

The article’s still open. You look at the photo of Chris again. His expression is guarded, tired. You haven’t spoken in months—maybe longer. There’s a number in your contacts that hasn’t been used in too long. Just his name. Just “Chris,” like that’s all he’s ever needed to be.

You scroll down and hover your thumb over it. For a moment, you just sit there, staring at his name, thumb resting above “Call.” You wonder if he’s okay. If Riley’s okay. If he needs someone to talk to. If he even wants to hear your voice again.

But then your hand drops and you press the power button on your phone, letting the screen go dark. Some things are easier left in silence. You push the article aside, shut the laptop, and head for the kitchen.

There’s dinner to cook—and someone new to meet.

-

You’re just setting down the last of the cutlery when the doorbell rings. You wipe your hands on a kitchen towel and head for the front door, already guessing it’s Tigerlily. She never remembers to text when she’s close.

When you open the door, there she is—wearing a grin that says be cool, Mom—and beside her, a tall man with floppy brown hair, a shy smile, and arms full of flowers and wine.

“Hi, Mom,” she says sweetly. “This is Julian.”

“Hi,” he says quickly, stepping forward and offering the flowers. “It’s such an honor to meet you. I mean, you’re—I know who you are. I’ve seen your old interviews. Your film stuff. You’re even more beautiful in person.”

You blink, pleasantly amused, and take the flowers with a smile. “Oh, is that so?”

He nods, a little too eagerly.

With a small smirk, you take a step closer to him, lowering your voice just slightly. “You know… I’m not nearly as beautiful up close.”

Julian lets out a breathy little laugh, shoulders going stiff as his cheeks flush. “I—I mean, I think you definitely are. I mean, it’s not just your face. I mean, not just—” He throws a helpless glance at Tigerlily, who’s already rolling her eyes.

“Julian,” she cuts in dryly, “stop flirting with my mom.”

“I’m not—! I wasn’t—” He stammers, then finally gives up and laughs, brushing a hand through his hair. “Okay. Maybe just a little.”

You chuckle, stepping aside to let them in. “Well, come in, both of you. The food’s warm, the wine’s breathing, and apparently, I still have some star power.”

Tigerlily snorts as she kicks off her shoes. “You love it.”

You wink at her. “Of course I do.”

The dining table is cozy, the food still steaming in its dishes as the three of you settle in. Conversation flows easily at first—small talk, compliments about the meal, and the occasional sarcastic nudge from Tigerlily when Julian tries too hard to impress.

“So,” you begin, picking up your wine glass, eyes darting between the two of them. “Tell me—how did you two meet?”

Tigerlily doesn’t miss a beat. “At an art exhibition. He was standing in front of a piece I hated and we started arguing about it.”

Julian grins. “I maintain that it was a brilliant statement on digital isolation.”

“It was a pile of tangled wires and a single desk lamp,” she counters. “But apparently, that’s all it takes to find love.”

You laugh and tilt your head. “And how long have you been dating this tortured art soul?”

“Four months,” Tigerlily answers, her voice dipping into something soft, almost shy.

You hum thoughtfully, then turn to Julian with a gentle smile. “How old are you, Julian?”

Before he can even open his mouth, Tigerlily pipes up again, “He’s only a few years older than me, mom.”

You lift an eyebrow. “You sure you’re not his spokesperson, sweetheart?”

She flushes, biting her bottom lip as Julian chuckles beside her.

You nod, still looking at Julian. “And may I know what do you do?”

Again, Tigerlily jumps in, “He’s a data analyst.”

You slowly blink at her, lips curling into a knowing smile as you turn your attention fully on Julian. “Well, with a job like that, I’m sure Julian can answer my questions himself.”

Tigerlily lets out a sheepish laugh, covering her face with one hand. “Sorry. I just—habit, I guess. Go ahead, interrogate him. Just… please be nice.”

You laugh softly, giving her hand a quick pat. “Don’t worry, honey. I only interrogate the ones I like.”

Then you look back at Julian, folding your hands on the table like a queen giving audience.

“So, Mr. Data Analyst,” you say, eyes twinkling. “Tell me everything. Start with your worst trait and work your way up.”

Julian gulps dramatically, already smiling, and the table bursts into gentle laughter.

-

You’re scooping sorbet into little bowls when you feel Tigerlily’s presence beside you, her hand already reaching for the berry compote you made earlier.

“Need help?” she asks.

You nod. “You read my mind.”

The two of you move in sync, falling into an easy rhythm as she spoons sauce and you add mint leaves for garnish. After a moment, you glance toward the dining room where Julian is sipping his wine, politely waiting.

“He’s a little serious, your Julian,” you say lightly, nudging her with your elbow. “He always seems… nervous. A bit rigid.”

Tigerlily rolls her eyes. “He’s just shy, Mom.”

You smile knowingly. “He���s the complete opposite of your usual type.”

“Okay, ouch,” she retorts, though she’s clearly amused. “Maybe I’m growing up.”

You chuckle, bumping her hip playfully. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. I can tell you fancy him. You’ve got that stupid little twinkle in your eyes.”

“Oh my God—” she groans, face turning red as you slide a bowl toward her and bump your hip against her again.

The soft music playing from the living room hums a dreamy melody, and without warning, you start dancing along to it, swaying your hips as you plate the last dessert.

Tigerlily watches in horror. “Please stop.”

You throw her a wink. “What? I’m not trying to embarrass you in front of your boyfriend.”

“Yes, you are!”

You let out a cackle, spinning once with your spoon in the air like a microphone. “You didn’t say I couldn’t entertain him.”

Tigerlily practically begs, “Mom, please, I’m trying to keep some mystery in this relationship!”

“Fine, fine,” you say, finally setting down the spoon. “I’ll stop torturing you—for now.”

You hand her the last plate, then glance at her gently. “Did you know about your dad and Rowan?”

Tigerlily nods, not surprised. “I'm honestly surprised that their marriage lasted that long.”

You hiss. “Tigerlily Bang.”

She nonchalantly shrugs in response. “What? I’m just being honest.”

You give her a look. “Have you called him?”

She hesitates. “I’m going to visit him next weekend. I’m… introducing Julian.”

You pause for a moment, then soften. “Be nice to him, okay? It probably wasn’t easy to him. Maybe just give him a call before that—ask if he’s okay.”

Tigerlily stays quiet, pressing her lips together. Then she nods, her voice soft. “Okay.”

You slide an arm around her shoulder and pull her in, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “Good girl.”

Tigerlily leans into you for a moment. The kind of lean that says she’s still your little girl—even now. And then you’re back at it, nudging her with your hip again. “Now come on, sing with me. You know this part!”

“No, no, no—Mom!”

But she’s laughing as you start twirling, and eventually, she gives in, half-singing the chorus while the two of you finish plating desserts, moving in sync like the good old days.

Just as you’re setting the final plate down with a flourish, you hear someone clear their throat. You both turn.

Julian is standing at the kitchen doorway, blinking. “I—uh. Should I come back later?”

You and Tigerlily look at each other. Then you beam.

“She made me do it,” Tigerlily says instantly.

“Sure she did,” Julian grins.

-

At the end of the night, you walk them to the front door, the last of the dishes soaking in the sink and the music now reduced to a soft hum in the background. The night air is cool when you step outside, a gentle breeze brushing past as you follow Tigerlily and Julian to the car parked along the curb.

Tigerlily turns to you first, her eyes soft and glassy in the porch light. “Thanks for the lovely dinner, Mom.”

“Of course,” you say, pulling her in for a long, grounding hug. You squeeze her tighter than usual, feeling the familiar comfort of her arms wrapped around you—still your little girl, even with the grown-up job and the boyfriend waiting by the car. “I love you.”

“Love you more,” she mumbles into your shoulder.

You step back, brushing her hair from her face like you always do, and she gives you that shy smile she used to have when she was caught sneaking snacks before dinner. Then she walks over to the passenger side, leaving Julian standing awkwardly at the bottom of the steps.

“Thank you again, ma’am,” he says, wringing his hands slightly.

You give him a look, amused. “Ma’am makes me feel ancient.”

He swallows. “Right. Sorry. I mean—thank you for having me.”

You step forward, resting a hand lightly on his arm. “You’re welcome, Julian. And for what it’s worth…” You pause, smiling. “You’ve made quite an impression tonight.”

He exhales a laugh, relieved. “That’s good to hear.”

“Drive safe, okay?”

“I will,” he says, nodding a little too eagerly.

You step back as he gets into the car. Tigerlily waves at you through the window, and you wave back, your arms folding over your chest as you watch the headlights blink on. They pull away slowly, the car disappearing down the quiet street.

You stay there for a moment on the porch, your fingers brushing your elbows, listening to the stillness of the night settling in around you and even though it’s quiet, your heart feels full.

You close the door behind you and lean your back against it for a second, letting the silence of your home settle over your shoulders. You walk into the living room and glance at your phone on the coffee table. You hesitate, then reach for it.

Your thumb hovers over Chris’s name in your contacts.

You check the time—too early to be asleep, too late to know what he’s up to. Probably pacing around his house with his guitar strapped to his chest, or lying on his couch with the TV on and his mind elsewhere.

Still, before you can talk yourself out of it, you press call. The line rings once. Twice. A third time. You shift your weight, ready to hit “end” when—

Click.

“Hello?”

You blink at the sound of his voice, low and familiar through the speaker. “Guess what?” you say, your tone light, almost teasing.

“What?” he asks, curious.

“Your daughter just brought her boyfriend over for dinner.”

There’s a beat of silence. “She what?”

You laugh. “His name’s Julian. Very polite. Very nervous. He looks like he’d rather face a firing squad than meet me.”

Chris groans. “Great. That’s exactly the kind of guy who’d try to steal my daughter from me.”

“She’s not being stolen, she’s dating.”

“Same thing.”

You smile to yourself, curling your legs under you on the couch. “They’re going to visit you next weekend. Be nice.”

“Define nice.”

“Chris.”

“Okay, okay,” he sighs. “I’ll give him a chance. But I’m not promising I won’t make him sweat a little.”

You chuckle. “That’s your job, I suppose.”

A silence stretches between you, not uncomfortable—just weighted with history. You take a breath before saying, “So I uh... I saw the news.”

Another pause.

“I was going to call earlier,” you continue, gently. “But I didn’t know if you’d want to talk. Are you okay?”

Chris lets out a quiet breath. “I’m… getting through it.”

“How’s Riley handling it?”

“She’s…” he trails off, searching for the right words. “She looks okay, but I don't know.”

You hum in agreement. “Check on her once in a while to let her know you're there if she wants to talk about it.”

“Yeah, I will,” he mutters, sounding defeated.

“You know,” you say with a small, lopsided smile, “at least your second marriage lasted longer than ours.”

Chris chuckles, the sound softer this time. “Low bar.”

“You set it, not me.”

There’s a quiet moment again. Then your voice softens. “I mean it, Chris. If you ever need to talk, or vent, or scream into the phone—I’m here, okay? As much as I hate it… you’re still my daughter’s father.”

He exhales slowly, and you can hear it through the phone, like something he’s been holding in is finally slipping out.

“I miss it,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “Miss what?”

“This,” he says simply. “Talking to you.”

You swallow. The lump in your throat arrives fast, uninvited. “I should let you rest,” you say quietly, clearing your throat before your voice can crack. “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Thanks for calling.”

“Anytime.”

You hang up before the silence turns into something else. Something too close. Too familiar. You set the phone down and lean your head back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

And for a while, you just sit there bcause sometimes, missing someone is quieter than you expect.

-

Summer sunlight spills through your kitchen windows, casting warm, golden streaks on the hardwood floor as you pack the last of your sunscreen and sunglasses into a tote bag. The hum of cicadas fills the air from outside, and you can already hear Tigerlily’s voice carrying from the living room—teasing, excited, just a little chaotic, as always.

Julian stands nearby, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot, his hands tucked into the pockets of his shorts. He’s always been a little stiff around you, still nervous after all this time, but today… it feels different. Extra twitchy.

“Hey,” he says quietly, catching your attention just as Tigerlily calls out that she’s running to the bathroom to reapply her sunscreen.

You turn to him, eyebrow raised. “Everything okay?”

“Can I—” he clears his throat, gestures toward the back door. “Can I talk to you for a second? Just… out there?”

You eye him for a beat, curious, then nod and follow him onto the back porch. The breeze is warm, but there's a nervous chill rolling off of him.

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flitting toward the floorboards. “I, um. I wanted to ask you something.”

You fold your arms loosely, head tilting. “Okay…”

“I know this might seem fast,” he begins, eyes finally meeting yours, “but I’m going to propose to Tigerlily today. On the boat. I’ve been planning it for a while.”

You blink. The words hang in the summer air like a firework frozen mid-explosion. Your mouth opens slightly, but no words come right away. You stare at him, heart swelling and squeezing all at once.

Julian continues quickly, hands half-raised in panic. “I know we’ve only been together for a little over a year, but I love her. She’s everything I’ve ever hoped for, and I want to build a life with her. And I—I wanted to ask your permission, before anything else.”

It is fast. But you’ve seen the way she looks at him, how he looks at her. The way they orbit each other like two stars pulled by gravity stronger than reason. You’ve watched them fall in sync like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And he’s never once made you doubt his intentions.

You smile softly, eyes going a little glassy. “Well,” you begin gently, “you’ve been nothing but a wonderful boyfriend to my daughter. And you clearly adore her.” You pause, reaching out to lightly touch his arm. “So yes. You have my blessing, Julian.”

His shoulders drop in visible relief and he lets out a small, nervous laugh. “Thank you. Really. That means the world to me.”

Just then, the door opens behind you, and Tigerlily’s voice cuts through the moment. “What are you two doing out here?”

Julian spins on his heel a little too fast, and you clear your throat quickly, your brain scrambling for the first believable thing. “Julian was helping me, uh… figure out the sprinkler. It’s acting weird.”

She narrows her eyes. “The sprinkler?”

“Yep,” you nod, way too quickly. “Super weird. Total mystery.”

Julian gives a stiff little smile, playing along. “We, uh, think it’s the pressure valve.”

“Okay…” she says slowly, clearly not that interested. “Well, come on. Let’s go. The boat’s not going to wait for us.”

You grab your bag and follow her out the door, heart still racing a little from the moment you just shared. Julian gives you a grateful glance as he opens the car door for Tigerlily.

And as you sit in the passenger seat, watching the two of them exchange playful banter and knowing glances on the way to the dock, something in your chest softens.

Tigerlily is happy. That’s all you’ve ever wanted.

-

The dock stretches out before you like a ribbon of sun-bleached wood, groaning faintly beneath your steps. The sea sparkles under the sun, dazzling and blue, dotted with boats and the occasional flash of seagulls flying over the sunny sky. Julian walks ahead, a few steps in front of you, leading the way to his family's boat.

He turns around as you reach the boat, climbing down to the edge and holding out a hand. “Here, let me help you guys on.”

Tigerlily climbs on first, holding onto the railing before turning back to you with a grin. You pause, just for a second, taking in the image of her—sunlight in her hair, smile wide and easy, laugh lines already forming around her eyes—and something about it makes your throat tighten.

Julian offers his hand to you next. “You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod, pressing your lips together as you take his hand.

“Yeah,” you say, stepping onto the boat. “More than okay.”

Tigerlily helps you with your bag, the two of you settling in as Julian introduces you to the rest of the guests on board. He offers his hand again as he helps you up a narrow stair to the upper deck, guiding you through the boat with gentle ease. “Come on, let me give you the grand tour.”

You follow him with a soft chuckle, brushing your hair away from your face as the wind picks up. The boat is beautiful—sleek, well-kept, definitely not the kind of thing you expected to find yourself on this summer.

He leads you into a cozy lounge area, where his parents are seated on a cushioned bench, sipping drinks and chatting quietly. They both rise when Julian gestures toward them.

“Mom, Dad—this is Tigerlily’s mom.”

His mother greets you first with a warm smile, her hand extended. “We’re so happy to finally meet you. Thank you for joining us today.”

You take her hand and return the smile, nodding. “Thank you for having me. It’s a beautiful boat.”

Julian’s dad nods along. “Julian’s told us a lot about you,” he says kindly. “You raised a wonderful daughter.”

You laugh lightly, brushing off the compliment. “She pretty much raised herself, honestly.”

You move on to another corner of the deck where a younger girl sits with headphones half off her ears.

“This is my little sister, Maude,” Julian taps her shoulder, and she pulls them off, blinking up at you with instant recognition.

“Oh my God,” she says before she even stands. “You’re her. I knew you looked familiar.”

You blink, a little caught off guard. “Her?”

“Her, as in you,” she insists with a grin. “You’re—wow—you’re even more beautiful in person. My girlfriend, Alexa, is going to freak.”

Before you can respond, she’s already pulling her phone out. “Lex!” she calls. “Come here—come meet Tigerlily’s mom!”

A second later, a tall girl with red curls appears from below deck, raising a brow. “What—”

“She’s right here,” Maude says, practically bouncing. “Isn’t she stunning?”

You press a hand to your chest, laughing shyly as you look away. “Okay, okay, I think that’s enough of that,” you say. “You’re all going to make me too self-conscious to stay on this boat.”

Fortunately, Julian swoops in, hand landing lightly on your shoulder. “Alright, you two, quit scaring my girlfriend's mom,” he teases before turning to you. “Come on—front deck’s clearing up. Let’s relax a little.”

You nod gratefully, and he guides you to the front of the boat where cushioned seats curve around the bow. Tigerlily’s already lounging there, hair whipping in the breeze, sunglasses perched on her nose.

Julian hands her a kiss on the lips—quick, sweet—and tells her, “I’m getting us drinks. Be right back.”

He disappears down into the cabin again, and the sound of the water takes over.

Tigerlily turns to you, pulling her sunglasses up into her hair. “See?” she says. “Everyone loves having you here.”

You roll your eyes playfully, folding your legs beneath you as you settle into the cushions. “They’re being polite.”

“They’re being real,” she insists. “Especially Maude. I think she’s about to print out your Wikipedia page and frame it.”

You laugh, and she grins wide.

“And especially me,” she adds with a meaningful look. “I love having you here.”

You reach over and brush her cheek with your knuckles, your heart tugging at the corners. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

The boat rocks gently as the three of you lounge on the front deck, sun cascading over everything in a golden glaze. You’re tucked in one corner with a book in hand and sunglasses shading your eyes, only half-focused on the page. From your peripheral vision, you catch glimpses of Tigerlily curled up against Julian, their conversation floating around like soft background music—something about a movie he promised to watch, something else about her weird dream last night. You smile faintly at their easy affection, eyes dropping back to your book—until a shadow lengthens beside you.

Someone joins the group. You can feel it immediately, like a ripple in the calm. Not just the presence, but the weight of a gaze on you—curious, unwavering. You glance up briefly, eyes peeking over the rim of your sunglasses.

It’s someone you haven’t seen before. A tall, lithe man with buzzcut hair and delicate, striking features that contrast sharply with the sharpness of his frame. His eyes linger on you in a way that feels oddly direct, and it’s only when he finally speaks that the spell breaks.

“Hey, who’s this?” he asks, his voice smooth, amused.

Julian blinks, glancing between you and the man. “Oh—right. Hyunjin, this is Tigerlily’s mom.”

Hyunjin’s mouth twitches into a small smile as he steps closer and extends his hand. You slip your bookmark in place and close the book, slipping off your sunglasses. His hand is warm in yours, long fingers wrapping around gently—but his eyes, they hold your gaze like they’re reading something in you.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” he says, voice low, and then adds with absolutely no hesitation, “You’re really beautiful.”

Tigerlily bursts into sudden laughter, her hand flying to cover her mouth. “Hyunjin!” she gasps. “Are you trying to hit on my mom?”

“So what if I am?” he says, totally unbothered, still looking at you.

You feel a heat rise to your cheeks—not the sun, this time.

Julian groans good-naturedly. “Hyunjin, why did you think I’m dating the daughter, not the mom? She’s the it girl of the ’90s, man.”

Tigerlily gives Julian a glare before elbows him on the side.

“I had no idea,” Hyunjin says, his gaze not leaving yours. “I just know she’s beautiful.”

You’re not used to compliments like this anymore—not said so earnestly and with such ease. You laugh lightly, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear as you give a polite, slightly flustered smile. “Well, thank you.”

Tigerlily, still grinning, leans over to nudge Julian. “He missed the part where you say in the ‘90s, right? Like… a while ago.”

Hyunjin just shrugs, his tone almost challenging. “Like I care about that.”

Tigerlily blinks at him. Then turns to you. You raise your brows, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. You try to return to your book, but the page blurs a little. Not from the sun, not from the wind—but because there’s something about the way Hyunjin is still watching you like there’s more to read in you than the pages you’re holding.

The boat stops once it's far enough from the shore and the splashing sound coming from the side of the boat startles you. You fumble to check only to find Julian’s sister, Maude, has jumped into the sea.

You decide to sit at the edge of the boat, legs curled beneath you, a cold drink in one hand and the sun warming your shoulders as Tigerlily, Julian and Alexa are also jumping into the water, splashing around like kids, their laughter echoing over the waves. You watch them with a fond smile, chin resting on your palm, feeling oddly full just witnessing your daughter so happy. Then, you hear it.

Click. Click.

Your head turns instinctively toward the sound, and there he is—Hyunjin—standing a few feet away with a camera in hand, lowering it with a guilty smile when he notices you’ve caught him.

“Sorry,” he says, not looking sorry at all. “I just… couldn’t help it.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, half-amused, half-incredulous. “Were you just taking pictures of me?”

He shrugs like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I was. You're beautiful—it’s hard not to.”

That makes you let out a breathy, surprised laugh, half-shy, half-entertained. You shake your head, glancing back out to the sea like it’ll cool your blush. “You’re something else.”

“Hyunjin,” he says, finally coming closer and offering his hand again, this time more properly. “I don’t think I introduced myself earlier.”

You take his hand again, noting how warm and familiar it already feels in yours. “Nice to meet you, Hyunjin. I take it you and Julian go way back?”

He leans casually against the rail beside you, his sunglasses hanging off the collar of his shirt. “High school. He was exactly the same back then. Sweet. Smart. Terrible at talking to girls.”

You grin. “So you’re saying he’s always been this… nervous?”

“Like a scared puppy,” Hyunjin confirms, laughing. “But the kind that would take a bullet for the people he loves. You don’t have to worry about Tigerlily. He worships her.”

You nod softly at that, touched. “That’s very reassuring. Thank you.”

Hyunjin looks at you for a beat, then tilts his head. “Aren’t you curious to know about me?”

You laugh. “Are you offering up a full character profile?”

“Only the interesting parts,” he says with a wink. “Let’s see… I’m a pottery artist. I throw clay for a living. Julian actually met Tigerlily at one of my exhibits, so I’ll take partial credit for their love story.”

“Wow,” you smile. “Multitalented and a matchmaker.”

“And single,” he adds, eyes sparkling. “Also, apparently… recently discovering I might have a thing for older women.”

You laugh—a real one this time, unfiltered and light—and toss your head back slightly. “Oh, is that so?”

Hyunjin leans a little closer, voice low and teasing. “You’re kind of making it hard not to.”

Your gaze flickers to his—those sharp eyes softened by sunlight and mischief—and you find yourself laughing again, caught completely off guard by how amused, how seen you feel in that moment.

It’s been a long time since someone made you feel this way. Curious. Flattered. Just a little bit reckless. And the fact that it’s someone like him only makes it worse—and better.

-

The sun is hanging low over the horizon, spilling its golden light across the calm sea, and you’re in the kitchen galley, shoulder to shoulder with Julian’s mother as you help prepare dinner for everyone. The boat gently sways beneath your feet, and the sounds of laughter and soft music drift in from the deck. There’s something peaceful about it—this simple, domestic moment, so different from the chaos your life once knew.

Fresh from her shower, Tigerlily joins you, her cheeks still flushed from the sun and her hair damp around her shoulders. “Smells good in here,” she says, bumping her hip against yours as she grabs a stack of plates and starts setting the table on the back deck.

You're watching her, quietly smiling, when Julian appears beside her, freshly changed into dry clothes. He takes her hand gently and calls, “Hyunjin, hey—would you mind taking a few photos of us with the sunset?”

You glance over, your heart skipping a beat. So this is it.

Hyunjin, camera in hand, gives a playful salute and positions them with their backs to the sunset. “Alright, stand right there. A little closer. Julian, put your hand around her waist… yeah, perfect. Lils, look out at the ocean.”

Tigerlily does as she’s told, oblivious and relaxed.

Julian’s other hand slips into the pocket of his pants. You freeze where you stand, breath catching in your throat. Julian slowly pulls out a small velvet box.

“Okay, now, Lils,” Hyunjin calls gently, “turn around and look at Julian.”

She spins playfully, half-laughing—until her eyes land on him. She goes still. Her breath stutters.

Everyone else falls quiet.

Julian is on one knee, holding the box open, his face awash in the soft, fading sunlight. You grip the edge of the table, your heart racing in your chest.

“I knew from the moment I saw you at that gallery that I wanted to know everything about you,” Julian begins, voice a little shaky but clear. “I love how your laugh comes out before your jokes do. I love that you always steal fries off my plate even though you say you’re not hungry. I love that when I’m with you, I don’t feel like I need to be anyone else.”

Tigerlily blinks, tears welling fast in her eyes.

“You make everything feel like home,” Julian continues, his own eyes glassy. “And I want to spend the rest of my life trying to make you feel the same way. Will you marry me?”

It hits you like a wave—pride, joy, a strange ache in your chest like you were the one being asked, you were the girl in love with the sea glowing behind her.

Tigerlily gasps, a hand over her mouth, and then—she nods. “Yes,” she chokes out. “Yes, Julian.”

Cheers erupt around the boat. Julian slips the ring onto her finger, his hands trembling, and then stands to kiss her, slow and reverent, with the ocean breeze dancing through their hair.

You blink back tears, feeling them slip down anyway—and then a gentle arm wraps around your shoulders. Julian’s mother. She gives you a knowing squeeze, her own eyes shiny with emotion. “It’s something else, isn’t it?” she murmurs.

You nod, biting your lip to keep from crying harder. “It really is.”

And as Tigerlily and Julian hold each other beneath the peach-streaked sky, their silhouettes backlit by the fading sun, you can’t help but whisper under your breath, “My little girl’s getting married.”

You’re still trying to collect yourself, when you hear the hurried footsteps—barefoot and light—and then suddenly, she’s there.

Tigerlily throws herself into your arms, nearly knocking the wind out of you. She’s laughing, breathless, trembling with joy as she hugs you tight.

“Mom!” she exclaims, pulling away just enough to hold her hand out in front of you. “Look!”

The ring glints under the fading sunlight, elegant and simple, but it might as well be the crown jewel by the way she’s staring at it, eyes wide, still dazed. “I’m getting married,” she says in a whisper, like she doesn’t believe the words even as she speaks them. “I’m actually getting married.”

You nod, slow and soft, swallowing hard against the lump forming in your throat. “You are,” you manage, voice thick with emotion. “You really are.”

And then you pull her back into your arms, wrapping her up like you did when she was small, when she’d scrape her knee or have a bad dream or just need her mom.

“Are you happy, little cub?” you murmur against her hair.

She pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes, cheeks still wet from tears but her smile—oh, her smile is luminous. “Yes,” she says, with a kind of certainty that steadies your heartbeat. “I’m so, so happy.”

You nod again, brushing her hair gently back from her face, your fingers lingering at her temple.

“If you’re happy,” you whisper, “then I’m happy.”

You lean in, kiss her softly on the temple, and for a moment, the world falls still. It’s just the two of you—mother and daughter, hearts full, tears barely held back, connected by something deeper than words.

Then Julian approaches, his steps quiet but purposeful, and you break the hug to turn to him. His face is still flushed from the proposal, his eyes a little watery, but he smiles at you—nervous again, like always. You step into his arms and hug him too, firm and warm.

“Congratulations,” you whisper. “Take good care of her, will you?”

“I will,” he says, voice a little shaky. “I promise.”

When you pull back, Tigerlily is beaming at both of you, and then she takes Julian’s hand, and just like that—the celebration continues.

Dinner is served on the upper deck under a string of fairy lights. Music plays, laughter rings out across the boat, and champagne glasses clink in celebration. Everyone is radiant—Maude and Alexa dancing barefoot, Julian’s parents looking proud, Hyunjin snapping candids in the golden hour light, and you—

You sit back for a moment, just watching. Watching your daughter. Your daughter, laughing with her fiancé, cheeks flushed with happiness, her whole future ahead of her.

A mix of emotions rolls through you—pride, awe, disbelief, joy, and that familiar ache that comes with letting go. You think of all the versions of Tigerlily you’ve loved: the little girl with scraped knees and messy braids, the teen who rolled her eyes but still hugged you goodnight, the woman now, who wears engagement rings and about to be someone's wife.

And something blooms in your chest, wide and full. Not just joy—but peace. Profound, bone-deep peace. In this moment, you feel it completely. You are happy.

-

The house feels impossibly still after a day so full of life. You move through the quiet halls, still smelling faintly of salt and sunblock, your bag abandoned by the front door. The lights are dimmed low, just enough to guide your way to the bedroom. You’re halfway through brushing your teeth when your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Chris.

You hesitate before picking up. It’s late. But you know him—you know that if he’s calling at this hour, it’s not casual. You slide your finger across the screen and press the phone to your ear. “Hey.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then— “She’s getting married.”

His voice is low, worn out. Not angry. Not sad. Just… broken.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, your breath catching slightly. “She called you?”

“Just hung up,” he says. “She was so excited. Said it like she couldn’t believe it herself.”

You smile faintly. “She was glowing all day, Chris. You should've seen it.”

Chris lets out a laugh—quiet, hollow. “I remember when she used to light up like that just from sitting on my shoulders.”

There’s a long pause, one of those where neither of you needs to speak to understand the ache the other is carrying. “I know it’s stupid,” he finally says, “but it feels like I’m being cheated on. Like—she was mine. My baby. My little cub. And now some guy gets to come in and just—just take over. Call her his family.”

You close your eyes, pressing your lips together. “It’s not stupid.”

“I used to be her whole world,” he says, his voice cracking. “Now I’m... a scheduled phone call. A guest at her wedding.”

You lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, your heart heavy with a quiet ache. “You’ll always be her dad, Chris. Nothing will ever take that from you.”

He sighs, and you can hear the way he’s holding back more. Memories. Emotions. Regrets.

“I missed so much already,” he mutters. “Her graduation. Her first heartbreak. All those stupid in-between things. I thought maybe I’d have more time.”

“You’ll have different moments now,” you say gently. “Maybe not the same ones. But new ones. Important ones.”

Chris goes quiet, and for a second, you wonder if he’s still on the line. Then, softly, he asks, “Did you cry?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Of course I did.”

“I wish I could’ve seen her,” he says. “Wish I could’ve been there. With you. For her.”

You swallow the sudden lump in your throat. “She looked so much like you when she said yes,” you whisper.

That gets him. You hear the hitch in his breath. The rest of the night is spent like that—Chris talking, remembering, grieving something that was never really lost, just changed. And you listen, the way only someone who’s loved him deeply once can. You let him be selfish, fragile, ridiculous—because this isn’t about being rational.

This is about love.

And when he finally falls silent, you whisper, “We did good, you know. Raising her.”

There’s a long silence before he murmurs, “Yeah. We really did.”

You set your phone down gently on the nightstand, the screen going black like the closing of a curtain. The house is quiet again, but the silence feels different now—thicker somehow, like it’s holding something inside of it. You lean back against the pillows, exhaling slowly as your eyes drift up to the ceiling.

It’s not just you.

That’s the thought that settles over you like a blanket. You’re not the only one caught in this strange in-between—between the past and the future, between holding on and letting go. Chris, too, is reeling. Grasping. Feeling like he’s losing something he thought he had more time with. There’s a quiet comfort in knowing that.

Because tonight, watching Tigerlily say yes with the sunset blazing behind her, part of you had felt like you were standing still while the rest of the world moved on without asking. Like everything was changing too fast, too soon.

But now, lying here in the soft hum of the night, you realize that maybe change doesn’t have to be something to fear. Maybe it’s just a new season arriving—quiet, inevitable, and hopefully, kind.

You turn your head, eyes landing on a photo of Tigerlily on your dresser. She’s younger in this one, her cheeks round, her smile toothy. You remember taking it. You remember everything. You smile faintly. Maybe this is what growing up looks like—not just for her, but for you, too.

And maybe it’s all changing for the better.

-

It’s a slow Saturday afternoon when you hear the familiar creak of your front door opening and Tigerlily’s voice calling out, “Mom?”

You glance up from your notebook, pen still in hand, and before you can answer, she’s already walking into the kitchen like she owns the place—as she always has—plopping her purse on the counter and reaching straight for the cookie jar.

“You want something?” you ask without looking up, grinning as you hear her bite into a cookie.

“Yeah,” she says around a mouthful, “I want you to come out with me tonight.”

That gets your attention. You raise an eyebrow as you swivel in your chair, playful curiosity in your voice. “Wow, inviting your mom out on a Saturday night? What, Julian couldn’t make it?”

From the kitchen, she groans. “He’s been swamped at work this week. He said he might fall asleep standing if he tries to go out tonight.”

You smile as you stand and stretch. “So I’m the backup plan.”

“No,” she says pointedly, another bite of cookie halfway to her mouth, “you’re the main event. I wanted to spend time with you. Before I become someone’s wife.”

You’re halfway to the kitchen when she says that, and your steps falter just a little—just enough to register the weight of her words. You reach her side and pluck a cookie from the jar, mirroring her stance, leaning against the counter.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you ask softly, a teasing edge to your voice.

Tigerlily doesn’t answer—not with words. She just gives you a knowing look, the kind of look that says everything without saying much at all. And you know. You know what she means.

That she won’t always be yours first.

So you gently pat the top of her head, a silent acknowledgment of what’s changing—of what will never change, too.

And then you take a bite of your cookie, brushing the moment aside with practiced ease. “So where are you taking me, future wife?”

She perks up, cookie forgotten. “There’s this art exhibition downtown—Julian got me the invite—and I thought maybe after, we could get drinks or something. Just us.”

You nod, finishing your cookie. “Alright then. Let me go throw on something cool and age-appropriate.”

“Please do,” she says with a smirk. “Because you’re about to be seen with a young woman.”

You flick a crumb at her, already walking away. “Then I better wear heels. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking I’m your mother or something.”

The city hums quietly around you as Tigerlily drives, her fingers drumming lightly against the wheel to the rhythm of the song on the radio. The sun is beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting golden light across her face—her cheekbones highlighted, her eyes focused, her lips painted a shade that suits her too well.

You’re watching her in silence, your elbow propped on the car door, cheek resting against your hand. It hits you all at once—how grown she is. Not just older, but grown. A woman. Not just your daughter, but someone’s partner. Someone who knows what she wants, who walks into rooms with her head high and her heart wide open.

She catches your stare during a red light and raises a brow. “Do I have something on my face?”

You blink yourself back into the moment and smile softly. “No. I just… I like your lipstick.”

She grins. “It’s in my bag if you want to use it.”

You reach down and grab her purse from the floor, fishing through it. Lipstick, sunglasses, tissues, receipts, mints—and a folded, glossy brochure catches your eye.

You pull it out, unfolding it. “Is this the exhibition we’re going to?”

Tigerlily glances over. “Yeah. Julian’s firm helped sponsor it.”

You scan the list of artists until a familiar name stops you cold. Hwang Hyunjin.

Your brow arches. “Wait. Is this… the Hyunjin I met on the boat?”

Tigerlily’s grin is instant, wicked, and wide.

“Yes,” she says, dragging out the word. “That Hyunjin.”

You slide her a look.

“Oh my god,” she says dramatically, “you totally forgot he was an artist, didn’t you?”

You feign innocence, setting the brochure in your lap. “I didn’t forget. I just didn’t know he was showing here.”

She laughs, delighted, tapping the wheel. “You like him.”

“I don’t like him.”

“You do. You got all flustered the second he called you beautiful.”

You roll your eyes. “Tigerlily.”

“Mom.”

You look out the window, but you’re smiling now, the kind that tugs at the corner of your lips despite yourself. And she sees it.

“Oh my god, you do like him.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. “He’s like, what, twelve?”

She snorts. “He’s as old as Julian.”

You glance back at her. “That’s not better.”

“That’s hot,” she says instead. “You’ve still got it.”

You shoot her a look. “Please stop.”

You hadn’t expected to feel nervous—this wasn’t a date, it was an art exhibition with your daughter. But ever since spotting his name on that brochure, there’s been a flutter of something low in your stomach, delicate and unshakable.

You walk beside Tigerlily into the exhibition, all clean lines and soft lighting. Art lines the walls—paintings, sculptures, ceramics—and you try to keep your eyes on them, but you can feel it. His gaze.

And when you look up—there he is. Hyunjin, standing near a tall display of pottery, dressed in relaxed black slacks and a linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His buzzcut somehow makes his cheekbones look sharper, but it’s the way his eyes immediately find you that makes your breath hitch.

Tigerlily grabs your hand and tugs you toward him. “Let’s go say hi to your potter boy.”

You gently swat her arm but don’t argue.

Hyunjin straightens as the two of you approach, a soft, knowing smile spreading across his face. His eyes flick between Tigerlily and you, but linger on you—open, unbothered, like he has no intention of pretending otherwise. “Hi,” he says simply, like the word is meant only for you.

Tigerlily grins. “Congratulations, Hyunjin. This whole thing is incredible. The colors, the forms—like, it’s weirdly emotional. I didn’t expect to feel something over clay.”

Hyunjin nods, appreciative. “Thank you,” he says, and then, softer, to you, “I’m glad you came.”

You swallow, fingers tightening slightly around your clutch. “It’s beautiful. Everything.”

Tigerlily glances between the two of you, and you catch the flicker of realization in her eyes. Her gaze lingers on Hyunjin, then you. A smile curves her lips, but she doesn’t say anything—just lightly touches your arm.

“I’m gonna get us some drinks,” she says, far too casually. “You two go ahead and talk about... I'll just go.”

Before you can say anything, she’s already turning away, leaving you alone with Hyunjin in the middle of his world.

Hyunjin smiles, as if this was always meant to happen. “Would you like a tour?” he asks. “I’ll show you my favorites.”

You nod, trying to collect yourself as he leads you across the room to a display of delicate, curved vases and explains a bit about it.

“Have you ever worked with clay?” he asks, that slight tilt to his voice—casual, but laced with suggestion.

You shake your head. “I don’t know the first thing about pottery. But it’s… really beautiful.”

“I could teach you,” he says.

You laugh, a little flustered. “I’m sure you’re busy.”

“For you, I’d make time.”

It’s so simple, the way he says it. No hesitation. No games. And that’s what throws you.

You look at him, really look—and he’s looking at you like you’re the centerpiece of the exhibition, like he curated the entire room just to bring you here. It’s intense, that kind of attention. Unapologetic.

“I doubt I’d be any good at it,” you say, trying to deflect.

“Come to my studio,” he says. “Let’s find out.”

His voice is low, but not pressing. Just enough to leave space—for you to lean in or walk away. But his eyes… his eyes are burning. Admiring. Wanting. A quiet pull you can’t quite escape.

You break the gaze, looking down at the smooth glaze of the pot nearest you, your fingers brushing lightly over its curve. Hyunjin’s smile deepens, and you don’t have to look at him to know. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

And somehow, you don’t hate it.

-

After the exhibition, you and Tigerlily settle into a cozy booth at a bar just down the street from the gallery. The music is mellow, the lights low and golden, and the clinking of glasses and quiet hum of conversation wrap around you like a blanket. You each have a drink in hand—something fruity and pink in Tigerlily’s, something simpler in yours.

You sip, exhale, and lean back. “Well… that was unexpectedly interesting.”

Tigerlily’s lips curve around the rim of her glass. “You mean the exhibition?” she teases.

You lift an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling him now?”

She laughs, a full, unfiltered sound. “I saw you and Hyunjin, you know. Sneaking off for your little pottery tour.”

You feign a gasp, dramatically clutching your chest. “What are you saying, Tigerlily? You want a new dad?”

She chokes on her drink, coughing through her laughter. “Oh my God, please don’t ever say that again.”

You grin as you stir your drink with the little straw. “Just checking.”

But then, her tone shifts—still playful, but more earnest now. “I’m serious, though. I think it’s a good time for you to start dating again.”

You glance at her sideways, teasing, “Oh? So you’ve finally given up on the dream of me and your dad running off into the sunset?”

Tigerlily chuckles, soft and knowing. “I mean… yeah. I used to hope, but now? I just want you to be happy. However that looks.”

Something in you stirs. It’s not sadness—not quite—but something tender. Moved. You coo, placing your hand over hers on the table. “You’re all grown up now, aren’t you?”

She gives you a sheepish smile, then rolls her eyes as she groans, “Even if that happiness means Hyunjin becomes my stepdad. Ew.”

You burst into laughter. “He’s not—Tigerlily!”

“I’m just saying,” she lifts her hands in defense, eyes wide, “if it ever comes to that, I’ll be supportive. Slightly traumatized, but supportive.”

You laugh until your chest aches, then sigh as you cradle your glass between your hands. “I don’t know… dating at my age, it feels kind of—”

Tigerlily gasps. “Don’t even start with that age talk.”

You shrug, playful but honest. “It just seems a little late to open up my heart again.”

She leans forward, voice soft but firm. “Then don’t open it wide. Just crack the window a little. Let some air in. You never know what might fly through.”

You look at her, this remarkable woman you raised, and something about her words nestles itself right under your ribs. “I’m not saying it has to be Hyunjin,” she adds, sly smile returning. “But… you could do worse.”

You roll your eyes, but the smile that lifts your lips is genuine. “You’re kind of sweet when you’re not being annoying.”

She raises her glass. “To annoying daughters who want their moms to be ridiculously happy.”

You clink glasses with her, the sound small but meaningful and for the first time in a long while, the idea of something new—something a little wild, a little uncertain—doesn’t scare you. Not when you’ve come this far. Not when your daughter is rooting for your heart.

-

So here you are, standing in front of the brick building tucked into a quiet corner of the city, the late afternoon sun casting warm shadows across its facade. The metal plaque reads Studio Hwang in a clean, simple font. You pause at the door, your hand hovering just before the handle.

This doesn't mean you're going to open your heart.

You're not here to be charmed or swept off your feet or written into some kind of romantic plot twist. No. You’re here because—well, because you were curious. And maybe a little flattered. And maybe, maybe, you wanted to try something new.

You exhale through your nose, give a small nod to yourself. Who knows, you think, maybe I’ll like it. So you push the door open.

Inside, the soft hum of conversation mingles with the earthy scent of clay and dust. Afternoon light spills through the high windows, warming the space in golden hues. Shelves are lined with ceramic pieces—some smooth and glazed, others raw and half-finished, waiting to become something more.

You spot Hyunjin almost immediately. He’s across the room, mid-conversation with someone—maybe a buyer, maybe a fellow artist, you’re not sure. He’s gesturing toward a set of tall vases, his tone focused, expressive. He hasn’t seen you yet.

For a moment, you hesitate. Your instinct tells you to step back outside, to give yourself an out before this becomes something real.

But then Hyunjin turns. He catches sight of you—and his entire face lights up. His smile is instant, genuine, radiant in a way that makes you forget you were just about to retreat.

“I’m happy to see you,” he says, stepping away from his conversation without hesitation. “You came.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” you say, glancing briefly toward the person he was speaking with, your hand still loosely gripping the strap of your bag. “I can come back later, if you’re busy.”

But Hyunjin’s reaction is immediate. He takes a small step toward you, shaking his head with a pleading softness in his eyes. “No. Don’t go.”

You blink, a little surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“I was just finishing up anyway,” he says, flashing you a crooked smile, one that almost feels like a quiet apology for making you feel like you weren’t welcome here. “I’ve been looking forward to this. Stay—please.”

And it’s the way he looks at you. Open. Warm. Like your presence just made his whole day better. Like there’s nowhere else he’d rather have you be.

You feel your hesitation melt, bit by bit. Your grip on your bag loosens. Your heart softens in a way you didn’t expect. So you nod. Quietly, simply, you say, “Okay.”

As you wait, you take slow steps around the studio, letting your eyes wander over the carefully displayed pieces—bowls, vases, sculptures that seem to carry a sense of motion even in their stillness. Each one is uniquely imperfect, textured with fingerprints, small ridges, grooves. They're beautiful in the way something made by hand always is—full of soul, full of intention. But as much as you're trying to focus on the art, your attention keeps drifting. To him.

Hyunjin stands a few feet away, still finishing his conversation, and you can’t help but look. The way he’s dressed is simple—just a white tank top tucked into jeans, the fabric hugging his frame in all the right places, and an apron dusted with clay tied around his waist. His buzzed hair is wrapped under a bandana. He gestures with his hands as he talks, his words low and animated, his passion palpable.

There’s something magnetic about it—the way his brows pull together when he's describing a shape, the way his hands mimic the curves of the piece, like he’s still molding it in the air. You find yourself watching too closely. Admiring too much.

God, he's attractive. Really, really attractive.

You realize you’ve been staring, your thoughts trailing somewhere they shouldn’t, and you quickly look away, pretending to examine a nearby vase like it suddenly became the most interesting thing in the world.

Your pulse does this little skip in your chest and you remind yourself again: You're just here to learn pottery.

The soft click of the studio door signals that Hyunjin’s guest has just left, and suddenly, it's just the two of you. The room feels quieter now, like it’s holding its breath, waiting. You run your fingertips along the rim of a ceramic bowl, pretending to study it as you hear the sound of his footsteps getting closer. Your heart does a little flutter as you straighten your posture, but you don’t dare turn around until you hear his voice.

“So…” he says, his tone lighter now, a little teasing, “ready for your first pottery lesson?”

You finally turn to face him, and he's looking at you with a smile that makes you feel warm all over. His apron is still dusted with clay, his arms streaked with it, and there’s a tiny smudge on his cheek you have to force yourself not to reach for.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, giving a small laugh. “I guess so. I mean, I don’t want to break anything.”

He grins, dimples and all. “Don’t worry. The only rule here is to enjoy yourself.”

The way he says it—calm, easy, inviting—makes you relax a little. You nod, your lips curling into a smile. “Okay. Teach me, then.”

Hyunjin reaches for an apron hanging on a hook, shaking the dust from it before offering it to you with a quiet smile. “Here,” he says, “can’t have you ruining that pretty outfit.”

You chuckle softly as you slide your arms through the apron, smoothing it down the front. Before you can reach behind to tie it, he’s already stepping closer—close enough that the heat of his body brushes your back.

“Let me,” he murmurs.

His fingers gather the straps at your waist, slow and deliberate, and as he knots them behind you, you feel the firm brush of his knuckles against the small of your back. Your breath hitches—just slightly—and you’re thankful he can’t see your face just yet. But then… he moves higher.

Without a word, his hand lifts to your hair, gathering it gently, fingertips brushing your nape as he lifts it away from your neck. “Can’t let it get messy either,” he says quietly, voice dropping an octave as he twists your hair and pins it up with a clip from the table. “There. Perfect.”

Hyunjin doesn’t step away. He lingers, his hands falling slowly, deliberately, to rest lightly on your shoulders as he leans in—just enough for you to feel the soft, warm brush of his breath against your neck. You close your eyes for a moment, heat rising in your cheeks, heart fluttering like it’s never been touched before.

“You smell really good,” he says, low and sincere, as if it’s a secret he hadn’t meant to say out loud.

You swallow, pulse quickening. “I—um… thank you.”

When you finally turn your head slightly to glance back at him, his eyes are already on you—dark, unreadable, but soft. And the look he gives you makes you feel like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.

He smiles, the corners of his mouth curling up like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “Let’s make something beautiful,” he says.

And you’re not entirely sure if he’s still talking about pottery.

-

Hyunjin leads you to the table, where a solid mound of clay sits waiting. He picks up a thin, taut wire with wooden handles on each end and holds it out for you. “This is a cut-off wire,” he explains gently, “you use it to portion the clay before you bring it to the wheel.”

You take the handles in your hands, unsure, and glance at him. He steps behind you again, not too close this time—but close enough that you can feel the presence of him, the quiet patience he carries.

“Pull it tight,” he says, “and glide it through like you’re slicing butter.”

You do as he says, but your motion is a little hesitant, uneven. He doesn’t correct you right away. Instead, his hands come up to rest over yours, steadying them, guiding the motion with a softness that makes your breath catch.

“Like this,” he murmurs, his voice brushing your ear.

Together, you slice through the clay. When it’s done, he lets go—slowly—and steps around to lift the cut piece with ease. He smiles.

“Perfect,” he says. “See? Not so hard.”

You follow him as he carries the clay over to the wheel, your heart still fluttering from the brief contact. He pats the stool next to the wheel.

“Come sit. Let’s get your hands dirty.”

You do, smoothing the apron over your lap as you settle in.

He slaps the clay down at the center of the wheel with a satisfying thud, then sits beside you, adjusting the pedal with his foot. “We’re going to start by centering the clay. That’s the most important part.”

You look down at your hands, already dusted with faint clay residue. “What if I mess it up?”

Hyunjin leans in with a smile that borders on a smirk, eyes flicking up to yours. “That’s part of the fun.”

His hands take yours again, guiding them toward the spinning mound of clay. The wheel starts turning, slow and steady, and he wraps his fingers around yours as the clay begins to take shape beneath your touch.

The sensation is strange—cool, smooth, pliant—but with him guiding you, it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels… grounding. Intimate. “Just feel it,” he says quietly. “Don’t overthink.”

You nod, even though your heart is racing—not from nerves over the clay, but from the way his voice settles into your spine. The way his hands feel sure and gentle over yours. The way his focus is split between the clay and you.

Then, Hyunjin moves to the wheel across from you, his own piece of clay already set and spinning. “Watch me first,” he says, looking up with a soft grin. “Then you can try.”

You nod, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear as you lean forward slightly, eyes on him. On the way his hands wet with slip move gracefully over the surface of the clay. His fingers are long, precise—expert—and there’s a natural rhythm in the way they press and pull, coaxing form from the formless.

Your gaze drops to his forearms, where veins run along the skin like rivers, his muscles subtly flexing as he controls the wheel. The way his biceps shift beneath the snug fit of his tank has your breath hitching just slightly, and then your eyes move up again—past the bandana holding his hair back, past the little smudge of clay near his jaw—to his face.

Hyunjin is all focus. Calm, unbothered, completely at home in the motion of his craft. And for a moment, you forget where you are.

You’re watching him—not just the process, but him—and your thoughts go quiet. All you hear is the hum of the wheel, the soft squish of clay, and your own heartbeat tapping against your ribs.

Then, as if he senses it, his eyes lift. He catches you staring. You look away fast, cheeks warming, pretending to busy yourself with your own shapeless lump of clay. But across the room, you hear his soft laugh. Low, amused, unbothered.

“I can feel you watching me,” he says, not looking up this time as he dips his fingers in water and smooths a new edge into his piece.

You glance up at him again, trying to sound casual. “I’m just observing. You said to watch.”

“Right,” he says, a teasing glint in his eye now. “Strictly academic.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that spreads on your lips. He doesn't push, just continues shaping his work with that same focused grace—while every now and then, you catch his gaze flicking back to you. And each time it does, it lingers just a little longer.

Not long after, you find yourself sinking into it, the stillness not awkward but comforting. The kind of quiet that wraps around you like a warm blanket, where nothing needs to be said. Your hands move gently over the clay, smoothing it, shaping it—not entirely sure what you're making, but enjoying the process anyway. It’s oddly therapeutic, the coolness of the clay, the give and resistance of it, the freedom to make anything. You let your fingers trail along its form, until—

The wheel spins too fast beneath your hand, wobbling wildly, and your once-decent shape collapses inward with a wet slap. You sigh, pulling your hands back, covered in clay and frustration.

Hyunjin looks up from his own wheel. He sees your frown, your ruined creation, and he doesn’t laugh like you expect him to. Instead, he wipes his hands with a rag and rises, walking over with an amused curl to his lips and that glint in his eyes. “You panicked,” he says softly, voice dipped in warm amusement.

“I messed it up,” you mutter, eyeing the deformed lump.

“You can still fix it,” he simply resolves.

Before you can ask how, he’s already behind you. Not too close—but close enough that you can feel his presence, the gentle press of warmth radiating from his chest. Then, with zero hesitation, he reaches around you, his fingers brushing lightly against yours as he guides your hands back to the clay.

“Slow down,” he murmurs, his breath brushing against your neck.

You try not to shiver as he continues, “Just feel it. Let your hands listen to what it wants to be.”

His hands gently cup yours, steering them over the clay as the wheel spins again—slower this time. Controlled. Intimate. His fingers never leave yours, and every time he leans in to speak, his lips come dangerously close to your ear. “You’re doing good,” he whispers. “See? Told you we could fix it.”

You manage a breathy chuckle, though your focus is split—half on the clay, half on how close he is. How his chest nearly grazes your back, how his voice sinks into your skin, how his fingers linger just a little too long with each adjustment.

“Feels a little like cheating,” you murmur.

He huffs a laugh behind you. “I like helping.” His voice dips a little lower. “Besides… if it means I get to be this close to you, I’m not complaining.”

You glance back at him—only to find his face already angled toward yours, eyes heavy-lidded with that teasing smile. Your breath catches. For a moment, neither of you move. You pull in a breath, trying to center yourself again—on the clay, the motion, the wheel beneath your hands, not on the way Hyunjin’s breath felt brushing your skin just moments ago.

“Okay,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “Let’s just finish this.”

And you do. You put all of your focus into the shape, your hands moving more confidently now. Every curve, every pressure, you begin to feel the rhythm. Hyunjin stays close but doesn't interfere anymore—just lets you work, watching with quiet eyes and the occasional, almost imperceptible smile. A few times, he gently murmurs encouragements, soft like a breeze: “Just like that… slower on the edge… good, yeah, that’s it.”

And slowly, it comes together. A little uneven, maybe. Not perfectly symmetrical. But it has a charm—your charm, your hands in the shape of it.

When you lift your hands and look at what you've made, you let out a quiet breath. “It’s… kind of a plate?” you say, unsure.

Hyunjin chuckles, stepping in. “It is a plate,” he says warmly, reaching for the cut-off wire. He carefully loops it beneath the clay, slicing it from the wheel with practiced ease, and lifts it with gentle hands like it’s a masterpiece.

He turns to you with a smile so genuine it makes your chest swell. “You did a really good job,” he says.

You smile back, your cheeks still warm. “Only because you practically made it with me.”

“I was just your guide.” He winks. “You’re the artist.”

You roll your eyes with a soft laugh, but something about the way he’s looking at you makes you stand a little taller. Like maybe you are capable of making something beautiful—even if it’s just a slightly lopsided plate in a small studio, with a man who’s slowly but surely making a mark on your heart.

-

The clay’s still under your nails a little, but there’s something oddly satisfying about it. A trace of the afternoon etched into your skin. You wash your hand in the nearest sink and feel a little more relaxed as you're toweling your damp hands.

Not long after, Hyunjin walks in, balancing two cups of coffee with ease, still in his paint-smeared apron and bandana, looking effortlessly undone in the most deliberate way.

“Made us coffee,” he says, handing you one of the mugs. Your fingers brush for a second as you take it, and it sends a small jolt up your spine.

“Thanks,” you murmur, taking a sip and leaning against the big wooden table beside him. The studio is quiet now, just the soft hum of life outside the windows and the lingering scent of clay and coffee between you.

You admire the wall-to-wall shelf of pottery on the other side of the studio, each piece unique, imperfectly perfect in their own way. “You’ve made all of these?” you ask.

He nods, glancing at them over his cup. “Each one’s like a memory.”

You smile at that, letting the silence wrap around you both for a beat. Then, from beside you, he says casually, “So… I might’ve done a little internet stalking about you.”

You glance at him, brow arching. “Oh?”

He smiles into his cup, lowering it slowly. “I was curious.”

“And what did you find out, detective?”

He turns his head to look at you, something playful and soft behind his eyes. “That you were… different.”

You narrow your eyes, amused. “Different how?”

He tilts his head, thinking. “Fiery. Effervescent. A little wild, in the best way.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Are you disappointed now?”

He shakes his head, eyes still locked on yours. “Not even close.” His voice is low, steady. “I like who you are now.”

Your heart flips, unprepared for the way he says it—so matter-of-factly, like it's the easiest truth he's ever spoken. Then he adds, almost as if speaking to the room, “But I think that part of you is still in there. Just… quieter now. I wonder if I'll ever meet her.”

You look down into your coffee, lips curling slightly before glancing back at him. “Or maybe you should’ve been born sooner,” you tease, nudging him lightly with your shoulder.

But Hyunjin just smiles, slow and knowing, as he turns to face you more fully. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “If I was born sooner… you wouldn’t have noticed me. I’d be nobody.”

Your smile falters, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he says, stepping closer. “You would’ve looked right through me. But now…” His eyes lock on yours again, this time deeper, weightier. “Now you see me.”

Your breath hitches, the space between you shrinking, thick with something electric.

“I think,” he murmurs, voice low, “we met at the right time.”

You swallow, caught off guard—not just by his words, but by the way he says them. The way he makes you feel. And you realize, maybe it’s not about being ready to open your heart. Maybe it’s about someone walking in and making it feel safe enough to try.

And then, he takes a small step closer, close enough that you can see the brown of his eyes, the way his lashes cast soft shadows on his cheekbones, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his temple from earlier.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks, voice low, husky with hesitation… and intent.

You nod before you can think better of it.

“I’ve been trying to keep it cool,” he murmurs, his hand brushing the edge of the table near yours. “Trying not to be… too much.”

Your lips twitch, heart hammering. “You think this is you trying to be subtle?”

Hyunjin lets out a quiet laugh, one that curls around your ribs and settles in your belly. “I guess I’m not very good at subtle when it comes to you.”

And then, slowly, he reaches out—his hand gentle as he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers grazing the curve of your jaw before falling away. The touch is light, but it lingers in your skin like fire.

“You make it really hard,” he says, barely above a whisper, “not to want... more.”

“More?” you echo softly, trying to keep your voice steady.

His eyes don’t leave yours. “More moments like this. More of your time. More of you.”

The silence stretches for a beat—your heart racing, cheeks burning—but you don’t pull away. You don’t stop him. Because in this moment, with the earthy scent of clay still hanging in the air and the fading sunlight washing golden across the floor, it feels terrifyingly easy to let yourself lean in—just a little closer.

And Hyunjin sees it. He sees the way your eyes flick to his lips for half a second too long. So he closes the space between you, just barely, until his face hovers inches from yours. Not touching, not yet. Waiting. Letting you decide.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “and I will.”

But you don’t, you don’t say a word. Instead, you meet his eyes—warm, steady, searching—and you let yourself lean in just enough to close the last inches between you.

And then, finally, his lips meet yours.

It’s soft at first—so gentle, as if he’s afraid to break something delicate. His lips move against yours with reverence, like he’s been waiting a long time for this moment, and now that he has it, he’s not going to rush. He kisses you like it means something. Your hand finds the front of his apron, clutching the edge of the fabric just to ground yourself, to make sure this is real. And when you respond—when your lips press back into his, just a little more certain, a little more open—he sighs softly into the kiss, like relief, like gravity finally pulling him where he belongs.

His hand cradles your face, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek, and the other finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer—not demanding, but asking. You let him. You let yourself fall into the warmth of him, the quiet hum of something new and terrifyingly beautiful blooming between you.

When he finally pulls away, it’s only just—his forehead resting against yours, eyes still closed, breath mingling with yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that,” he murmurs, “since the first time I saw you.”

You smile, breathless, your heart blooming in your chest like something brand new. “And here I thought you were just being polite.”

Hyunjin huffs a quiet laugh, his nose brushing yours. “Not even a little bit.”

And for a while, you stay like that—close, quiet, wrapped in something warm and soft and maybe even a little magical—before the moment gives way to the next.

Because this doesn’t feel like an ending. It feels like the very beginning.

-

✨ Chapter I of Evermore is available on my Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

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[applepiiex]

THE GODFATHER(S) ! ! ! ⏦ﾟ♡︎

Nanami Kento x Male!Reader

Adjusting to fatherhood is difficult. The sleepless nights, the constant crying, and the overbearing messages from family just wanting to stop by and see!'. So, placing their baby boy in an eight week quarantine, just you and Kento, its finally broken by his two godfathers. A/N: Prequel to First Words

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𓂃

The apartment was quiet in the way only new parents could appreciate; delicate, golden, sacred. The kind of silence that came with the miracle of a baby finally asleep, a dishwasher humming low in the background, and the sound of tiny, steady breaths echoing from the nursery. The soft light of the nightlight cast a glow onto the hardwood floor. It smelled faintly of baby shampoo and the faint citrus detergent Y/N liked.

He should have been in bed. He meant to be. But his body had settled here instead, just a few feet from their son’s crib, heart still too full to let the moment pass.

He hadn’t imagined this life five years ago.

Back then, he had buried himself in policy models and economic theory, had paced the halls of the department building in stiff button-downs and too-tight tension in his jaw. Love had felt inconvenient. A distraction. And children? Too tender a thing for someone like him to believe he deserved.

And now, months into fatherhood, he found himself undoing all the old armor. Softening in ways he never thought possible. He knew how to grade papers by heart. But learning how to fold onesies? How to hold a baby against his chest when the cries wouldn’t stop? How to watch Y/N, exhausted and radiant, bottle-feeding their son at 3 a.m. with a gentleness that cracked Nanami wide open?

Those were the lessons he never expected to cherish.

It had been a blur. The hospital. The forms. The car ride back with a tiny life wrapped in a blanket you’d both argued about at Target (“Why are you against ducks?” “They’re… garish.” “You’re garish.” “You married me.”)

Now he was here. Asleep in your living room. Your son. Nanami walked out of the nursery barefoot, hair a mess, glasses slightly crooked. In his arms: a freshly swaddled baby burrito.

“I think,” he said quietly, “he hates me.”

You blinked slowly. “He’s four days old.”

“He stared at me. With judgment.”

“He was pooping.”

Nanami sat beside you with a sigh, gently lowering the baby into the bassinet like he was handling fine porcelain. You scooted closer, curling up against his side, your head resting on his shoulder.

“Do you regret it?” you asked, your voice hushed, vulnerable. “All of it. Being with me. Doing this.”

Nanami didn’t speak right away. Instead, he pulled you a little closer. Pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. “I spent most of my life chasing structure,” he said softly. “Deadlines. Rules. Order. And then you walked into my TA hours, smiling like trouble, asking me questions about economic policy and trans healthcare in the same breath.”

You huffed a tired laugh. “A balanced combo.”

“I fell in love with you before I even knew it was possible,” he whispered. “You gave me chaos. And you gave me him. And somehow… I’ve never felt more grounded.”

You tilted your face up. His eyes were so soft now, edges worn down by sleepless nights and overwhelming love.

“He’s gonna have your frown,” you murmured. “I can feel it.”

“I’m going to teach him not to use it as a weapon.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers over Nanami’s wrist. “You already do.”

-

It was eight weeks and three days after your son — Tashi—  was born that Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru were finally allowed within ten feet of him. 

You had warned them. Nanami had warned them. The house had been under strict “no outside bacteria until all his shots are done” lockdown. Nanami enforced it like a military operation.

Gojo had tried everything, “Okay but what if I wear a hazmat suit and you throw the baby at me across the lawn like a football?”

Suguru had been more measured, “We can wave from the window like ghosts.”

Nanami had shut it all down. “No.”

But the day finally came. You had barely opened the door when Gojo and Suguru exploded into the entryway, Gojo with an obnoxiously large balloon that said “WELCOME EARTHSIDE, TASHI” and Suguru with a soft baby blanket embroidered with his name in neat kanji.

Nanami, standing behind you with Tashi nestled in his chest carrier, gave them both the look.

“Shoes off. Hands washed. No cologne. If you so much as breathe wrong near him, you’re out.”

Gojo saluted. “Sir yes sir, Papa Nanami.”

“I’m not kidding.”

Tashi squirmed gently in his little sling, one hand peeking out from the fabric like a sleepy dumpling. You rubbed his back and whispered, “Okay, baby, don’t be alarmed. The tall loud one is harmless.”

Gojo gasped. “How dare. I am a delight.”

“You’re a CDC warning.”

Suguru chuckled as he slipped off his shoes. “Let us meet our godson before Kento has a coronary.”

You slowly unbuckled Tashi from the carrier and shifted him carefully into your arms. His cheeks were round and warm, eyelids heavy with his latest nap, but when he saw the new faces, his brows lifted in curious surprise.

Gojo leaned in, hands clasped like he was about to meet royalty. “Is that the real Tashi Nanami-L/N? The myth? The legend? The reason your husband has ignored my texts for eight weeks straight?”

Nanami, from behind you, said flatly, “I will ignore them for eight more if you breathe on him.”

Gojo laughed and held out one pinky. “Hi, little man. I’m Uncle Gojo. You can call me ‘the fun one.’”

Tashi stared. Blinking.

Then, slowly, he reached out and grabbed Gojo’s pinky. “Oh my God. He chose me,” Gojo whispered dramatically.

Suguru crouched beside him, voice soft. “Hey, sweetheart. I’m Uncle Suguru. You’ve got really great taste in parents, you know that?”

Nanami softened only slightly. Tashi yawned. A long, squeaky, utterly nonplussed baby yawn and nestled deeper into your shoulder.

Gojo immediately pulled his phone. “Sorry. I must document this moment for my future memoir. Chapter One: The Chosen Godfather.”

Nanami’s hand appeared in frame. “No phones.”

“But he’s smiling!”

“He’s asleep.”

“…but cutely.”

You sighed, letting Tashi settle fully in your arms again. “He’ll wake up in a bit. You can hold him when he does. Under supervision.”

“Sir yes sir,” Gojo muttered again.

Suguru tilted his head, eyes soft as he watched Nanami standing behind you, one hand gently resting on your waist as you cradled your son.

“You’re doing good, Kento,” he said, voice quiet. Nanami blinked.

Suguru smiled. “You’re a good father.”

There was a pause, the words hanging with a weight that struck something deep. Composing himself, Nanami blinked and softly said, “Thank you.”

Tashi squirmed again and let out a tiny sigh against your collar. You looked down, kissed the top of his head, and whispered, “You’ve got a whole fan club already.”

Nanami reached around you, resting his hand lightly over yours. “He’s not joining any group chats.”

“Oh he will,” Gojo grinned. “And I’ll make the icon his little foot.”

“Get out of my house.”

[unsuperingyournatural]

standing still

Soldier Boy x Female!Reader

You’d never felt exhaustion like this before.

The kind that sinks deep into your bones and nestles in the soft spaces between your muscles. Hours of labor had stripped you bare, body and soul, and left you hollowed out and overflowing all at once. But when you looked down at the sleeping bundle in your arms, his tiny hand curled against your chest, none of it mattered.

He was here. He was real. And somehow, he was yours.

The room had quieted after the flurry of nurses and doctors, the beeping machines and hushed directives. Now it was just you, him, and Ben. The quiet hum of the hospital light above cast a soft glow across the room, painting the walls in muted gold. Outside the window, the city moved on like nothing had changed, but here inside, everything had.

You felt it before you heard him—the careful footsteps of a man who had never been particularly good at gentle, now trying his hardest. Ben crossed the room slowly, almost like he was afraid to wake the baby. Or maybe like he didn’t trust himself not to break the moment.

He stopped beside the bed, looking down at you with something new in his eyes. Not fear. Not pride. Not even that cocky spark he always carried like a badge. No, this was something softer. Something deeper. Something he wouldn't have let anyone else see, not in a million years.

You looked up at him and smiled. It was tired, but it was real.

"You wanna hold him?"

Ben nodded, a little too quickly. He eased himself down onto the edge of the bed with a carefulness that felt unnatural on someone like him. When you placed your son into his arms, Ben held him like the world might crack open if he breathed too loud.

His eyes never left the baby’s face.

"Holy shit," he whispered, voice low and gruff. "He looks like me. Lucky kid."

You let out a breathy laugh, head sinking back against the pillow. "How fortunate for him."

He gave you a sideways smirk, the kind that usually came right before a crude joke or a punchline that made everyone roll their eyes. But this time, he didn’t follow it up. He just stared down at the baby like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing.

"Look at him," he muttered, soft enough that it felt like reverence. "Ten fingers, ten toes, one hell of a grip. Kid tried to break my thumb earlier. He’s gonna be a tough one."

He ran a hand over the baby’s head, slow and clumsy but full of care. His other arm stayed rock steady beneath that tiny, swaddled body, like he’d instinctively turned into the kind of fortress no one would get past.

You watched them together, and something pulled tight in your chest. The man who could tear through steel like tissue paper was holding your baby like he was made of glass. His mouth parted when the baby yawned, just the faintest twitch of awe breaking through the war-hardened mask.

"I never thought I’d have this," he said. His voice was quiet, rough with something that might have been fear or awe or both. "Hell, I didn’t even think I deserved it. Didn’t think any version of me could end up here. With you. With him."

You swallowed hard, blinking against the emotion swelling behind your eyes. "You’re already better at this than you think."

He let out a rough chuckle, not quite bitter. "I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. All I ever learned was how to fight. How to kill. How to be what Vought needed. This? This is... different."

"Then start here," you said gently, touching his arm. "Start fresh. With him. With me."

Ben looked at you like you’d handed him a weapon he didn’t know how to use. Not because it was dangerous, but because it meant he had something to protect. Something he could lose.

"You made a person," he said, like he still couldn’t wrap his head around it. "You actually made a fucking person."

"We both did," you reminded him.

He looked at you then, really looked, and it hit him all over again. What your body had just been through. The pain. The blood. The kind of strength it took that not even a super serum could replicate.

"You’re unbelievable," he said, voice rough with emotion. "You went through all that for... for him. For us. Without V. You could’ve died."

"But I didn’t," you said simply. "I’m here. We’re here."

He leaned in and kissed your temple, warm and slow. "You’re not just beautiful. You’re... fuck. You’re something else. Like a damn goddess or something."

You rolled your eyes. "Pretty sure goddesses don’t have stitches in places they can’t sit on."

He huffed a laugh but didn’t let go of your gaze. "You look like the mother of my kid. That’s a whole new kind of beautiful."

He shifted the baby in his arms, just enough to give him more room. The little guy stirred, made a soft noise, and settled again. Ben stared down at him with a look you’d never seen before. A mix of fierce pride and bone-deep protectiveness.

"I’m gonna teach him everything," Ben said quietly, his voice taking on that steel edge again, the one he reserved for promises. "How to fight. How to survive. How to be better than I ever was. Nobody’s gonna lay a hand on him. Nobody."

You reached out and touched the baby’s cheek, marveling again at how real he was. How tiny. How impossibly new.

"He’s ours," you whispered.

Ben nodded slowly. "Yeah. He is. And he’s not gonna grow up in some lab. Not gonna be another pawn. He’s gonna be a real kid. A good man. Because we’re gonna make damn sure of it."

Ben looked back at you then, eyes lingering on your face with a kind of quiet awe. He leaned in again, slower this time, and kissed you gently. There was no swagger in the kiss, no fire or bravado; only warmth, the quiet weight of gratitude, and something that felt achingly close to love.

For the first time in a long, long while, Soldier Boy wasn’t a weapon. He wasn’t a relic. He wasn’t the shadow of some past war or a tool of corporate greed. He was just Ben. A man with a second chance. A man holding his son.

And for once, the world felt like it could stay still.

[everwhovian]

If you’re still taking requests, can I ask for Inho getting cuteness aggression with Junho? I feel like that kid got the life squeezed out of him at least a few times. Love your writing btw ♥️

Thank you so much! I love this so much omg!!

In-ho definitely hugged Jun-ho all the time and wouldn't let go! I also have a silly version of this 👀 if you want me to release the unserious version, just say the word!

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

In-ho never understood the fuss over babies.

Not as a kid. Not even as a teenager.

His classmates would stop in the street whenever someone passed by with a stroller, all wide eyes and soft voices. Some of the girls in his class would gasp over pictures of babies on their phones – scrunchy little faces wrapped in too-big beanies – and press their hands to their cheeks like the cuteness had physically hit them. Some of the guys would nudge each other and smile too, all awkward and self-conscious, like it was something they didn’t want to admit but couldn’t help feeling.

In-ho didn’t get it.

He’d look, sure. Sometimes he’d tilt his head and think, that baby looks like a potato, and move on. Puppies, kittens, squishy toddlers – they were all just… fine. Small. Fragile. Vaguely loud. He didn’t feel whatever it was that made people squeal or coo or grab their chest like they’d been personally attacked by cuteness.

There was nothing in him that sparked when he saw babies. Nothing tender. Nothing soft. That kind of feeling seemed like it belonged to other people.

People who didn’t grow up the way he did.

His own mother had never been unkind exactly – but kindness wasn’t something she gave freely. She was tired. Distant. Snapping one moment, silent the next. Her love was folded up in rules and expectations, in lines drawn too tightly, in eyes that saw everything but rarely softened. It wasn’t her fault, he told himself. Not really. Life had been hard. He’d learned early not to expect affection in the obvious ways.

So when his father had an affair, when his parents finalized their divorce, and his father’s new wife had a baby on the way, In-ho didn’t get angry. He just folded inward. Silently, neatly. Like something closing up before it could be bruised.

He remembered the feeling – sharp and dizzying, like being dropped into cold water with no warning. His father was long gone by then, and the news came not with an apology but with logistics. A name. A due date. A woman he barely knew.

But it wasn’t her fault either.

Because somehow, impossibly, this new person – his stepmother – didn’t treat him like a leftover piece from a broken story. She welcomed him. She asked him about school. She made him tea without being asked. She didn’t flinch at his silence or roll her eyes at his defensiveness. She treated him like he belonged.

And then she gave him a baby brother.

Jun-ho.

He didn’t go to the hospital. He told himself it was because they needed space, that the baby should have time to settle, that he didn’t want to intrude. But really, he was just… unsure. Hesitant. He didn’t know how to feel about a baby born from a truth that had fractured his already broken home. A baby who wasn’t just someone new – but someone whose very existence meant everything had changed.

Still, his father sent a picture. Just one.

A little red face, half-swaddled in a hospital blanket. Eyes closed. Mouth open in what looked like mid-sneeze. In-ho studied it longer than he meant to, fingers curled around the edges like the photo might slip away. It didn’t hit him, not yet. It was just a picture.

His mother saw it. Her mouth pressed thin. She didn’t say a word.

A week passed before In-ho finally made the visit. His stepmother greeted him at the door with a tired smile, said the baby was sleeping, asked if he wanted to peek in. She was still so kind – always had been. Quieter than his own mother, warmer in the way she never made him earn softness like it was a privilege. But even then, In-ho didn’t know what to say.

He just nodded.

The baby’s room was dim and still, the crib tucked against one wall beneath a paper moon-and-stars mobile. And there, beneath a blanket patterned with clouds, was Jun-ho.

So small.

In-ho stepped closer, something strange and quiet unfurling in his chest. The baby’s face was turned to the side, lashes barely visible against his cheeks, mouth slightly open in sleep. His fists were curled near his face, like he was dreaming about something important.

He didn’t look like much.

But something about him – something about the sheer smallness, the soft pink of his knuckles, the peaceful stillness – pulled at In-ho like a tide. Not sharply. Not all at once. Just enough to make his breath slow.

He reached down, almost without thinking, brushing his pinky near the edge of the blanket.

Jun-ho stirred.

Tiny fingers uncurled – slow and aimless – and brushed over his hand. For a second, they caught, curling loosely around his pinky like it was the most natural thing in the world.

In-ho stilled, watching the baby’s grip settle.

It was soft. Warm. Barely anything at all.

And okay – okay – that was… pretty cute.

He let the corner of his mouth twitch. Just a little.

The baby didn’t even open his eyes. Just held on, as if he already knew him.

And In-ho, despite himself, stayed right there. Still. Holding still. Holding on.

The next time In-ho visited, his stepmother handed the baby to him. He hadn’t wanted to hold him, at first. He was scared he’d mess it up. His limbs too long, his heart too guarded, his chest too closed.

But when she placed Jun-ho in his arms…

Everything cracked.

Warmth hit first – soft and overwhelming. That tiny wriggling weight curled into his hoodie. Big, dark eyes blinking up at him, unfocused and perfect. A sigh, or maybe a hiccup. The smallest sound.

And then the ache.

A sharp, breathless punch straight through his chest. His arms tightened on instinct, and a sound escaped him – half laugh, half whimper, completely unintentional.

This was his brother.

“Be careful,” his stepmother said gently from the chair. “Don’t drop him.”

“I won’t,” In-ho whispered, like a promise.

And he didn’t.

But from that moment, In-ho understood why his classmates used to stop mid-sentence just to coo at a passing stroller. Why they whispered over baby pictures like secrets, eyes soft, voices gentled by something they couldn’t explain.

He used to think it was performative. Silly.

But maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe they were just lucky enough to feel something he hadn’t felt – until now.

Because this baby, this tiny boy curled against his chest like he belonged there – he wasn’t just anyone.

He was his.

Jun-ho, with his sleepy blinks and furrowed little brow, with fingers that gripped pinkies like lifelines, with breath that warmed the fabric of In-ho’s hoodie – he was the softness In-ho hadn’t known he needed.

And now that he had it…

Now that he’d felt that first, fragile weight in his arms –

He finally understood.

In-ho started coming over so often, it stopped feeling like visiting and started feeling like living there. He’d crash on the couch, wake to the sound of bottles being warmed, fall asleep again to the lull of baby breathing. His stepmother never once made him feel like a guest – always just smiled, set out another mug, handed him the baby like it was the most natural thing in the world.

His own mother didn’t even blink when he stopped coming home. And his father – well, he was already gone. Again. Like always.

From that day on, Jun-ho barely touched the floor.

In-ho carried him everywhere – in those sling things, propped on his hip, asleep on his shoulder. He paced their apartment with Jun-ho snugged against his chest like something breakable and sacred. He did his homework with one hand while supporting the baby with the other. He memorized every weight-shift, every sleepy noise.

“You spoil him,” his stepmother teased once, passing by with a laundry basket.

“Maybe,” In-ho said. “He deserves it.”

Because Jun-ho was the soft thing the world hadn’t allowed In-ho to have. He was warmth, and gentleness, and that terrifying, beautiful feeling of being needed. He didn’t cry when In-ho held him. He settled. He curled in like the shape of In-ho’s chest had always been waiting for him.

It didn’t stop after those first moments.

If anything, it only got worse.

Because once In-ho held him – once he felt that tiny weight settle in his arms like it belonged there – something shifted. Permanently. And no matter how many times he told himself to be cool, to keep his distance, to not get attached… all it took was one blink, one hiccup, one tiny yawn from Jun-ho, and In-ho was done for all over again.

The way he’d press his tiny hand against In-ho’s cheek when he was tired? A tactical takedown.

The way his whole body went soft the second In-ho picked him up, like gravity had stopped mattering? Illegal.

The way he’d babble nonsense at the ceiling fan and then turn to In-ho like he’d just solved a mystery of the universe? In-ho had to sit down.

But nothing – nothing – prepared him for the first time Jun-ho reached for him on purpose.

It was a rainy afternoon. He’d come over after school, hair damp and socks squelching from the walk. He was seventeen now – old enough to pretend he didn’t get attached, old enough to act like baby talk was beneath him. He shrugged off his jacket and wandered into the living room, already expecting the soft sound of lullaby music and the smell of formula.

And there, sitting in his bouncer, was Jun-ho.

Five months old. All cheeks and tiny fists and a spit-soaked bib.

Their stepmother looked up from folding towels. “He’s been fussy,” she said. “Might want his bottle soon.”

In-ho nodded, already walking over – already crouching. And when he leaned in, just enough to say something soft, something like “Hey, buddy,” those dark eyes blinked open –

And the baby reached for him.

Chubby arms stretched. Fingers curled. No hesitation.

And In-ho – In-ho physically clutched his own chest.

“Did you see that?” he hissed to his stepmother, who was clearly trying not to laugh.

“He knows his hyung,” she said gently.

And he did.

Every time In-ho came over, Jun-ho lit up like someone had flipped on a switch inside him. His little legs kicked. His arms flailed. Once, he got so excited he spit up on his own onesie and then squealed with joy about it.

And when he started crawling?

In-ho was doomed.

He’d try to sit on the floor and read a book, and suddenly there’d be a tiny figure launching himself toward him with all the speed and force of a gummy bear in motion.

Once, Jun-ho crawled directly into In-ho’s lap, looked up at him, and sneezed.

In-ho cried. Actual tears. Tried to hide them. Failed.

Then there was the time Jun-ho grabbed In-ho’s phone, pressed every button with total baby chaos energy, and sent a blank message to his physics tutor.

When the tutor replied with a confused “?”, In-ho stared at the screen for a long second, sighed, and typed back: “Apologies. My baby brother got hold of my phone.”

And somehow, the toddler years were even worse.

Jun-ho learned to say “Hyung” with a little lisp and a big grin, like it was the best word in the world. Every time he said it, In-ho’s brain short-circuited.

He couldn’t handle it. Couldn’t handle the way Jun-ho would waddle into the room carrying a single sock and announce, “Hyung! Snek!” because he thought it looked like a snake. Couldn’t handle the way he’d fall asleep with his face smushed against In-ho’s arm, drooling, absolutely content.

He’d whisper things sometimes – “Hyung, I saw a BIG bug,” or “Hyung, I love pancakes more than air,” or “Hyung, I think clouds are just sky sheep” – and In-ho would have to stare at a wall for a full minute just to recover.

And god forbid the kid dance.

Jun-ho had always liked music. Even as a baby, he used to hum at nothing. Tap things. Sway when the kettle whistled. Now he danced whenever the mood struck – whether there was music or not.

In-ho had barely slept. The night bus had been cold and loud, and his back still ached from the way he’d curled up in the seat. He’d only been home an hour – just enough time to drop his bag, greet his stepmother, and sit down with his notebook, pretending the weekend would be productive.

He was halfway through re-reading the same sentence for the fourth time when he heard the quiet pat-pat of socked feet across the floor.

Jun-ho wandered into the living room – two and a half now, somehow taller, somehow rounder in the face. His curls stuck up in every direction. His shirt was on backwards. His little hand clutched a broken toy microphone like it was treasure.

He didn’t say anything.

Just moved into the open space between couch and table, planted his feet… and began to dance.

No music. No prompting. Just the kind of honest rhythm only toddlers had – half instinct, half mischief. He spun in slow, unsteady circles, arms waving like he was conducting his own invisible orchestra. He bounced on his heels, swayed his hips, wiggled his fingers at the sky.

It was completely uncoordinated. Messy. Silly.

And In-ho felt his heart flip over in his chest.

He wasn’t prepared. Not for this.

Not for the way Jun-ho’s brows furrowed in concentration mid-spin, or the way his little socks kept slipping and he’d pause, fix them, and go right back to twirling. Not for the crooked smile on his face, or the tiny breath he took before launching into what looked like his very serious finale – a two-step shuffle and a hop that nearly knocked him over.

“Hyung!” he shouted, breathless. “Look!”

In-ho was already moving.

He scooped him up in one smooth motion, strong arms lifting him into the air, and Jun-ho squealed with glee – legs kicking, laughter spilling into the room like sunlight.

In-ho spun him once, then twice, and pulled him close.

“You,” he murmured against soft curls, “are too cute for your own good.”

Jun-ho squirmed a little, then settled, arms around In-ho’s neck, still giggling.

In-ho held him tighter.

No clever thoughts. No plans. Just this – a dance, a squeal, a soft shirt pressed against his shoulder, and a warmth in his chest that didn’t leave room for anything else.

He’d come home tired.

But somehow, with Jun-ho in his arms, everything felt lighter.

And the truth was, it was too much sometimes.

The love. The wonder. The softness In-ho never thought he was allowed to feel.

He hadn’t been hugged much as a child. Hadn’t been rocked or kissed or carried just because.

But now he got to do all of it.

And Jun-ho, that little gravity well of chaos and sweetness, gave it back without asking for anything in return.

He didn’t just give In-ho affection.

He gave him something sacred.

A second chance.

Jun-ho didn’t remember a time before the hugs.

Before the way arms wrapped around him so often and so tightly that it felt more like a law of nature than something special. Like gravity. Or rain in summer. Or the hush of nighttime when the lights dimmed and the apartment creaked softly with sleep.

He couldn’t remember learning to expect it. He also couldn’t remember the first time he was lifted off the floor or spun in a circle or crushed gently against a chest that smelled like soap and fabric softener and something warm he couldn’t name.

All he knew was that it had always been this way.

His hyung didn’t say “I love you” very often. He didn’t need to. He said it in other ways. In the way his arms slid under Jun-ho’s armpits and lifted him clean off the ground with a groan of exaggerated effort and a smile he tried to hide. In the way he always sat just close enough on the couch that Jun-ho could tip over sideways and land in his lap without asking.

In the way he hugged him – often, wordlessly, like it was something his body just had to do.

Sometimes it came out of nowhere. One minute Jun-ho would be stomping through the house in oversized socks and a paper crown, announcing himself as king of the living room, and the next minute he’d be in the air – caught in a bear hug from behind, breath stolen in a surprised squeak. Hyung would hoist him up, spin him once, twice, and mutter something into his ear that sounded like “You’re too much” even though his voice was full of laughter.

Other times it was quiet and still. No games, no laughter. Just the two of them at the table. Jun-ho with crayons, his tongue between his teeth, carefully coloring inside the lines of a picture he’d drawn of the two of them – stick figures with matching hair. And then hyung would come up behind him, lean down, and rest his cheek on Jun-ho’s head for no reason at all. Just stay there. Warm and solid. One arm curling loosely around his shoulders.

Jun-ho would pause, a crayon hovering mid-stroke, and smile without even realizing it.

There were moments when Jun-ho thought he could feel the hug before it happened. Like the air around his brother changed a little – tensed and full of something he didn’t know the name for, like pressure building up behind a dam. And then hyung would reach out, like he couldn’t take it anymore. Like something in Jun-ho’s face or voice or wobbly attempt at dancing had tipped the scales too far, and now the only option was to grab him and hold on tight.

And Jun-ho loved it.

He loved the big, crushing hugs – the kind where he couldn’t even move his arms at first. He loved the ones where hyung made a dramatic noise, groaned “You’re getting too big for this” while still holding on tighter. He loved the quieter hugs, too – the ones that happened in the kitchen when Jun-ho tugged on a sleeve just to get attention, and hyung would look down, smile softly, and pull him close with one hand, like it was automatic.

He loved the way hyung always smelled like something comforting. Clean laundry and cold air and maybe something like old library books. He loved how his arms felt – strong and safe and familiar, even when Jun-ho was being silly or squirmy or downright loud.

And maybe what he loved most was the way hyung always acted like he couldn’t help it. Like the hugs weren’t planned. Like they snuck up on him – sudden and unstoppable – and he had no choice but to give in.

Jun-ho didn’t know the word for it – cuteness aggression – but he understood the feeling. It lived in the way hyung’s face pinched up like he was physically in pain from how cute something was. In the way he’d grab Jun-ho mid-sentence just to hug him harder. In the way he’d whisper “What am I supposed to do with you?” like he was actually asking.

Sometimes Jun-ho laughed so hard during those hugs that he hiccupped. Sometimes he threw his arms around hyung’s neck and squeezed until his own muscles trembled from the effort. Sometimes he didn’t do anything at all – just melted in, soft and still, letting himself be held.

Because it wasn’t just about being hugged.

It was about being loved.

Even now, even when Jun-ho was getting older and taller and louder – when he could dress himself and read full books and climb on top of the couch without help – hyung still hugged him like he was small. Like he was precious. Like no matter how big he got, he would always fit just right in those arms.

And Jun-ho… he never wanted that to change.

Because those hugs – all of them – weren’t just moments.

They were proof. Of love. Of safety. Of being chosen, again and again, without needing to ask.

And before anyone could blink, Jun-ho was a teenager. Practically an adult, depending on who you asked.

He was lanky now – all limbs and angles, tripping over his own feet when he forgot how tall he’d gotten. His voice cracked sometimes. He had too many opinions. He forgot to answer messages and rolled his eyes without meaning to.

He was too old for all of this.

That’s what Jun-ho told himself, anyway – whenever In-ho’s hand landed on his head, tousling his hair like it was still soft and round and not the overgrown mess it had become. Jun-ho would duck his chin, pretend to grumble, swat at the hand half-heartedly.

But he never actually moved away.

Because the truth was – he didn’t mind it.

He’d never admit that out loud, of course. Not now. Not at seventeen, with a chipped tooth and a bruised ego and a history of running his mouth at the worst possible moments. He wasn’t a baby anymore. He didn’t need to be held or carried or tucked into bed like he used to be. He could handle things on his own.

Most things, anyway.

But sometimes, In-ho would pass behind him at the kitchen table and give his shoulder a squeeze in that quiet, grounding way. Or he’d ruffle his hair in passing when Jun-ho was bent over an assignment, muttering curses at a math problem that didn’t make sense. Or he’d toss him a hoodie on cold mornings without saying a word – just a look, and a nod, like I’ve got you.

And Jun-ho didn’t say thank you. He didn’t know how.

So instead, sometimes – when the moment felt right – he’d lean just slightly into the touch. Let his brother’s hand settle between his shoulders. Let his head rest against In-ho’s arm on the couch, just for a second. Not because he needed to.

But because it was there.

Because even now – taller, older, messier – that feeling hadn’t gone away.

It wasn’t about being babied.

It was about being known. And still loved, anyway.

So when In-ho caught him off guard one lazy afternoon – wrapped him up in a hug that was too tight, too sudden, nearly knocked the air out of him – Jun-ho’s first instinct was to squawk in protest. Loud. Dramatic. Arms pinned.

But he was laughing, even as he fought it.

“Hyung,” he wheezed. “I can’t breathe.”

In-ho didn’t let go.

So Jun-ho gave up. Relaxed into the grip. Hugged him back with all the strength in his limbs and none of the words in his chest. Just a breath, a squeeze, a press of his forehead to In-ho’s collarbone.

And maybe that was enough.

[synity]

Can you please write about Junhui something about first time parents

Rising Flower

(Wen Junhui x FemReader)

*Slice of life, soft angst, fluff, emotional comfort, first-time parents*

He’s always been gentle.

Gentle with his words. Gentle with his touch. Gentle with love, even when the world wasn't.

And when he found you loud laughter, honest tears, warmth like sunlight he knew he wanted to carry that gentleness into something bigger.

Something you could both grow.

And that something? Is now asleep in his arms.

The Day Everything Changed

He never thought he’d cry.

Not like this.

But when the doctor handed him the tiniest, softest, most breathing proof of life he’s ever seen his entire chest cracked open.

You were too exhausted to speak, eyes fluttering, tears streaking down your cheeks.

But Junhui?

He held your daughter like the universe had finally decided he deserved a miracle.

She was red and wrinkly and louder than he expected, but the second her tiny hand curled around his pinky, he forgot everything else.

And then she blinked.

Two dark, curious eyes your eyes looked up at him.

And just like that…

He fell in love all over again.

But Love Isn’t Always Quiet

The first night was chaos.

She wouldn’t sleep. You were sore and half-awake. The hospital light was harsh. And Jun had no idea how to swaddle properly even though he watched five tutorials.

He bounced her gently, humming soft Mandarin lullabies under his breath, heart racing.

You were asleep. Finally.

And Jun whispered to her like a prayer:

"Hi. I’m your dad. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

She stared at him, fists balled, lip trembling.

“But I love you. I loved you before I even met you. And I promise… I’ll never let you feel alone.”

The first time you three came home, it was quiet.

Too quiet.

Jun looked at the bassinet. Then at you. Then at her.

“What do we do now?”

You smiled, sleepily. “We survive.”

It was survival at first.

No sleep. Diapers. Feedings. More diapers.

Sometimes Jun doubted himself.

What if he was too soft? What if he couldn’t protect her? What if she didn’t like him when she grew up?

But then…

She smiled at him.

One morning, 4:56AM, as he held her against his chest and hummed an old Chinese melody she looked up and grinned.

He swore the world stopped.

No one told him that your tears would come at random times when the baby cried, when the milk spilled, when you looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize yourself.

No one told him that he would cry too quietly, in the shower, because he wanted to be strong for you.

No one told him that love could be this exhausting and this huge, all at once.

But Jun learned.

He learned how to hold your hand through the storm.

How to take night shifts so you could sleep.

How to tell you, “You’re beautiful. Even when you’re tired. Especially then.”

He learned to be soft and strong.

For both of you.

The first time he brought her to the SEVENTEEN dorms, all hell broke loose.

“She has his eyes!” Minghao shouted.

“Her nose is yours!” Seungcheol said to you.

“She has better hair than me, I’m retiring,” Joshua dramatically declared.

She was passed around like royalty cheeks kissed, hands held, lullabies sung.

Jeonghan cried. DK took 200 photos. Dino tried teaching her the choreo to HOT.

And Woozi?

He just stared at her for a long moment, then looked at Jun and whispered,

“You did good.”

Jun smiled.

“We did good.”

Late Nights, Early Mornings

Jun doesn’t mind staying up.

He’s gotten used to the bleary-eyed 3AMs, pacing the hallway with her tiny head on his shoulder.

He hums softly the melody to an unreleased ballad.

“You’ll never know, How much I prayed for you…”

Sometimes he tears up when she sleeps on him.

She’s so small. So real.

And he can’t believe he gets to be her dad.

One night, he finds you in the kitchen at 2AM.

You’re crying.

Silent, shoulders trembling, a bottle half-filled in your hand.

He walks to you instantly, wraps his arms around you from behind.

“Talk to me,” he whispers.

You just shake your head.

Jun turns you around gently.

“You’re not alone, baobei,” he says, brushing your hair back. “You’ll never be.”

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” you whisper. “I love her, but… I feel like I lost myself.”

Jun’s heart shatters.

He presses your forehead to his and says quietly:

“You didn’t lose yourself. You became more. You’re her safe place. You’re my home. And I love you more now than I ever have.”

You break into sobs. He holds you for a long time.

The baby cries.

You move to go.

He stops you.

“I got her. You rest.”

And you know you’re not alone.

One Year Later

She takes her first steps on a Sunday morning.

Jun screams.

Louder than a concert. Louder than a stage win.

He scoops her up, spins her, tears in his eyes.

You’re crying too.

She laughs, clapping her chubby hands.

“Appa!” she says.

Jun nearly drops her.

Because that’s the first time she said it.

He hugs her close and whispers,

“You’ll always be my first everything, okay?”

Now

You’re asleep on the couch.

She’s on his chest, breathing softly.

He’s watching the sun rise a pink gold ribbon stretching across the sky.

The first sunrise he’s seen in weeks.

She shifts slightly. He kisses her head.

And for a moment, Jun realizes:

This is the happiest he’s ever been.

Not on stage. Not at an award show. Not in front of fans.

But here.

In a quiet home. With the girl he married. And the daughter they made.

And all he can think is:

“I’m the luckiest man in the world.”

[a-court-of-fics-and-errors]

ACOTAR Dads & Uncles

Here are some head canons about our favorite ACOTAR males and how they handle little ones, whether that be their own children, or the children of those they know.

Included are Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel, Eris, Lucien, Tamlin & Tarquin.

Rhysand

Everyone knows that Rhysand is the ultimate protector of his family, but fatherhood took that instinct and turned it up to an eleven

The day Nyx came into the world, Rhys became a male on a mission.

The house was a maze of enchanted barriers and warding spells. Feyre thought he was going overboard when he covered every sharp edge in thick padding and rearranged all the furniture to create wide, baby-safe paths.

When he started eyeing Cassian and Azriel's wings with a calculating look, mumbling about how "a bit of padding couldn't hurt--just on the tips," Feyre had to draw a hard line.

Anyone who stepped foot near Nyx's nursery was met with Rhys's outstretched hand and a pointed look toward the nearest washbasin.

He'd wait until he heard the water run twice before letting them get close. Rhys didn't care if it was Amren or his own mother reincarnated—no one got a pass.

He would hover nearby, just out of sight, listening for every coo, every tiny sound his son made.

When Nyx got his first sniffles, Rhys had been inconsolable, pacing back and forth with the little one bundled in his arms.

"I should have been more careful!" He would murmur.

Feyre had to wrap both of them in her arms and assure him that babes catch colds. It's natural—builds an immune system.

He only half believed her, but when Nyx finally felt better, he promised himself it wouldn't happen again. Even a sneeze sent him spiraling.

The first time Nyx fell and scraped his knee while crawling, Rhys was at his side, his power flared in the room as if there had been a coordinated attack.

He picked up Nyx and cradled him, brushing his fingers through his soft hair, whispering soothing words as his own eyes grew wet.

Feyre had told him it was just a scratch, hiding her smile behind her hand as she watched her mate try and fail to keep from crying harder than the babe.

"But it's his first scratch," he had insisted.

Oh the bragging.

Even before Nyx could babble, Rhysand was already speaking of his son like he was a prodigy—savant in everything. Rolling over, crawling, walking, babbling.

At meetings of the High Lords, it was an unspoken rule that the first thirty minutes of each meeting would be dedicated to hearing all about Nyx's latest accomplishments—including those that no one but him would label as such.

Rhys would lean back in his chair, a proud smile on his face, recounting every new expression and sound his son had made.

If he could, he would even bring Nyx along—wrapped tightly against his chest—he would stride into the meeting, practically glowing, not looking up at the attendees but only down at the little tuft of black hair peeking out of the swaddle.

"It's never to early to learn diplomacy," he would joke. It was particularly hard to take him seriously in meetings where they were discussing trade strategies when Rhys spent most of the time staring down at Nyx or Nyx screeched over someone else.

Around others, Rhysand remained the poised, elegant High Lord of the Night Court. But alone with his son, he became an entirely different male.

His voice rises to a singsong, soft and silly, wiggling his fingers, making the most ridiculous faces and blowing raspberries onto any exposed skin he can find.

"Who's the best little High Lord-in-training?" he relentlessly coos.

Cassian

The first time Cassian holds Nyx, he's terrified. Cassian has seen his share of traumatic events, he’s ripped out intestines and spinal cords, faced death itself. But this little wriggling mess of a babe is an entirely new battle.

He cradles the newborn like he's handling glass, his massive hands trembling slightly as he looks to Rhys and Feyre for reassurance.

“Is this right? Is he breathing okay?" he asks in a panic.

Feyre would gently guide his arms until Nyx was nestled comfortably, while Rhysand looks like he’s about to explode.

Cassian's relief to not have to hold the baby anymore was almost laughable—but there is so much awe in his eyes as he looks down at the tiny bundle, it almost breaks your heart.

It's a side of him that no one has seen before.

For weeks, he's too afraid to hold Nyx for more than a few minutes at a time, sitting down, with his arms supported on the leans of the chair, with Feyre only inches away ready to catch the babe if he suddenly slipped from his grasp.

After a while, however, he finds his confidence, and it becomes his personal mission to never hold a baby "appropriately" again. It helped when he watched Feyre almost lose hold of the little one herself, Nyx slipping from her arms. When the babe didn’t shatter, he figured he could be a little more…lenient.

He'll tuck Nyx under one arm like a football and stride around, much to Rhys's horror. Or, once Nyx gets older, he'll balance him on a broad shoulder, supported by one wing, walking in circles around the House of Wind while Nyx squeals in delight.

"What? He likes it!" Cassian protests when Nesta scolds him, pulling Nyx from his perch.

When he finally has his own baby—which he essentially begged on his knees for—he doubles down on the unorthodox holding techniques. He becomes known for carrying his own daughter (once she's old enough) upside down, or perched on his back.

He also prefers to carry his baby in his shirt, with their small face peaking out over the collar. He loves to be able to lean down and smell their hair, and the feeling of their little heart hammering against his own.

Cassian's biggest goal, whether with Nyx or his own children, is to be the funniest fae in their life.

He makes the most ridiculous faces, sticking out his tongue, crossing his eyes, and puffing out his cheeks until babes are shrieking with laughter. Later on, he takes on a more…vulgar approach. Fart jokes, “potty humor”, and takes more than a little pride in teaching Nyx his first swear words.

He invents silly games like "flying lessons" where he gently swoops them around the room, or folding his wings in tightly and trying to get little ones to get him to open them as they pull with all their strength.

Whenever he's babysitting Nyx, he's caught by Feyre or Rhys mid-performance, singing made-up songs that sound more like battle chants about changing diapers or finding lost pacifiers.

Both Nyx and Cassian's own babies quickly discover that he's basically a living furnace, and it doesn't take long for them to decide that he is the perfect nap spot.

He'll settle onto the couch or stretch out in front of the hearth, babe sprawled on his chest, their tiny fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt, or tucked underneath, skin-to-skin.

He'll stay like that for hours, a hand resting on their back, refusing to move when his legs cramp.

"It's fine," he'll say, whispering. "I'm not going anywhere."

He loves feeling the gentle rise and fall of their breathing, knowing they feel completely safe.

Cassian has always been fiercely protective, but that instinct only intensifies when he becomes an uncle and later a father.

With Nyx, he’s constantly standing guard, even if it’s just while the little one naps in the living room.

He has a sixth sense for when Nyx is about to cry, swooping in with a toy or a funny face before the tears can fall.

When it comes to his own child, he takes things even further. He insists on accompanying them to their first healer’s visit, his arms crossed and wings flaring if the healer so much as makes his baby frown.

“They need to know I’m watching,” he’d mutter to Nesta, who rolls her eyes but secretly finds his intensity endearing.

When the healer takes the baby out of their clothes to weigh them, the cold air hitting their skin setting off a series of wails, Cassian nearly jumps over the table—held back only by Nesta who hisses at him to get a grip.

Cassian might be a tough Illyrian warrior, but he has a major weakness: baby laughter.

The sound of it turns him into a mushy mess, and he will do absolutely anything to hear it.

With Nyx, he’s constantly inventing new ways to coax out those precious giggles, like flapping his wings dramatically or pretending to trip over his own feet in front of the baby.

When he becomes a dad, he finds that he loves making his own child laugh even more.

He’ll crawl around the floor pretending to be a “wild Illyrian beast,” growling playfully as he lets his little one “capture” him.

The louder the laughter, the prouder he feels.

Nesta often finds them in fits of laughter together, Cassian’s face covered in spit-up or drool, but he doesn’t care at all.

He’s always trying to teach the babies to say “Uncle Cass” or “Dad” before anyone else’s name—much to Rhys’s and Nesta’s annoyance.

He’ll hold up their little hands, moving them like they’re giving a fist bump, saying, “Come on, let’s show ‘em who’s coolest!”

He even tries to teach Nyx and his child how to “fly” by holding them in the air, whispering to them about the skies above the Illyrian mountains.

He’s always caught whispering promises into their ears, like, “One day, I’ll teach you to fly for real, little one.”

Azriel

From the moment Nyx is born, Azriel quietly takes on the role as the protector.

While everyone else fusses over the babe, he's lurking nearby.

At first, he's hesitant to hold Nyx, afraid that his scarred hands and shadowy presence might be too much for the delicate skin of the newborn.

Feyre places the baby in his arms one quiet night when it's just the three of them, and Azriel freezes.

Nyx is tiny and warm against his chest, and for a moment Azriel stops breathing.

Nyx looks up at him with sleepy, curious eyes, and Azriel's heart softens in a way he never thought possible.

Azriel is the go-to for sleep regression given his own insomnia.

When Nyx wakes up in the middle of the night, it's often Azreil who slips into the nursery, lifting the babe into his arms, rocking him gently and whispering stories in his low, soothing voice.

He tells Nyx tales of faraway lands, hidden valleys, and ancient heroes and his shadows dance across the walls, forming little figures to keep the babe entertained until he goes back to sleep.

When he has his own baby, Azriel falls into the same habit - found sitting by the window, his baby cradled in his arms, gazing out at the night sky as he murmurs about constellations

He likes to think that these quiet nights are their little secret, just him, his baby, and the night.

When Azriel has a babe of his own, he spends hours perfecting new shadow creatures—tiny wyverns that curl up and "breathe" little plumes of darkness, or shadowy butterflies that flutter around the crib.

Despite his skill with shadows and natural gentleness, Azriel is surprisingly awkward when it comes to certain aspects of fatherhood.

The first time he tries to change a diaper, he stares at it like a puzzle.

He follows Nesta or Feyre's instructions entirely, determined to get it right, but his hands are so careful, so precise, that he's barely halfway done before the babe wriggles out of the diaper.

When he finally manages it, he sighs and smiles down at the babe, "There, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

As the kids get older, Uncle Azriel takes on the role as the patient teacher.

He takes Nyx and his own children for gentle "flying lessons" which come with a lot less frustration than when Cassian teaches them or guides their small hands to throw punches.

He's incredibly careful, making sure lessons are safe, but also fun, and he can't help the quiet joy he feels when they take to the air for the first time or a little hop when they throw a surprisingly strong punch.

When it comes to bedtime, Azriel is always the one the kids beg for stories from.

His own little ones love curling up in his lap while tells them stories of enchanted forests, magical creatures, and hidden lakes.

They fall asleep him his arms, heads resting on his chest, while Azriel continues on until he's sure they're asleep.

He's the kind of father who watches from the sidelines, keeping a silent eye on their little one for their first steps.

He knows to never tell them to "be careful" to not teach them to fear the world.

He lets them explore and take risks, but the second they fall too hard, he's there, gathering them up into his arms with a quiet, "You're alright, little shadow."

The first time his little one gets a scrap, Azriel's heart nearly stops.

He carefully tends to their bloody knee, his hands steady but face drawn with worry, murmuring reassurances of their bravery.

He carries them home in his arms, wings wrapped protectively around them, as if he could shield them from every dangers in the world.

One of his favorite tricks to get Nyx to laugh is when he touches his nose, Azriel gasps and whispers dramatically, "How did you know my secret weakness?"

Eris

Eris never thought he would be the fatherly type, and when his child is born, he finds himself overwhelmed by a swirl of unfamiliar emotions.

He initially is distance, convinced he's too hardened and sharp-edged for such a delicate little being.

He holds his newborn like they're made of porcelain.

But the moment those tiny fingers curl around his thumb, everything shifts.

He would do anything - burn anything - to keep them safe.

Eris is meticulous when it comes to the comfort of his children.

Their nursery is decorated as perfectly as he can make it, particularly about the soft autumn-hued fabrics draping the crib.

He's the type to pace the halls of the Autumn Manor with the babe bundled in his arms, using his powers of fire to keep them just warm enough, adjusting the temperature until it's perfect.

When he lays them down to sleep, he'll smooth the blankets over them with a gentleness that surprises even him, his precise hands lingering a moment longer to make sure they're truly safe.

Despite his cold demeanor, Eris quickly finds a soft spot for holding his child close.

He's surprisingly good at soothing their cries, rocking back and forth into the early hours of the morning.

He paces pack and and forth in his study, the babe nestled against his chest, his steps slow and even as he murmurs about the ancient trees of the Autumn court.

His child's small breaths against his collarbone are a comfort he never knew he needed, a reminder that not everything in his world has to have a sharp edge.

As his child grows, Eris takes on the role of storyteller, sharing tales of the Autumn Court and its beauty.

He doesn't sugarcoat dangers, but he talks about the world in a way that makes his children's eyes widen with awe rather than fear.

He paints a picture of a world where fire and foliage blend into one, where foxes dart through shadows and ancient magic hums beneath the forest floor.

Eris is determined to pass on a sense of elegance and poise to his child, even if they're only a toddler.

He dresses them in miniature versions of his own tailored coats, rich in autumnal reds and oranges, and delights in showing them off when they toddle through the manor.

He's patient as they stumble through their first steps, guiding tiny hands with pride he doesn't bother to hide.

He teaches them to bow with a flourish that makes him laugh, even if they're far too small to get it right.

"Style is everything, little fox," he'll say with a smile while ruffling their wild hair.

He plays little games, like hide-and-seek among towering stages of books in his study, letting out exaggerated gasps when the "find" him behind a chair.

Sometimes he pretends to be a fox himself, crawling on all fours and playfully nipping at them.

If anyone else saw him like this, he'd immediately retreat into his usual cool demeanor, but with his children's laughter ringing through the halls, he finds himself not caring as much as he used to.

Eris isn't one to gush, but he shows his love through quiet gestures.

He leaves small, enchanted trinkets for his child to find - a tiny firefly made out of flame that hovers around their crib, or a leaf that glows like embers when they touch it.

He'll tuck a blanket tighter around them when they fall asleep in his arms, pressing a barely-there kiss to their forehead before slipping out.

He keeps a close eye on them whenever they play in the gardens, his gaze flicking to them every few minutes, ready to step in if needed.

He doesn't hover - he's far too subtle for that - but his presence is always there.

When courtiers dare make snide remarks about how he has softened as a father or suggest he's too indulgent with his child, he simply smiles, the fire in his eyes saying more than any words could.

"My child will never know the fear that I did," he says quietly to those who push too far.

He would burn entire forests to the ground if it meant keeping his family safe.

Though he never says it, Eris worries constantly about his child's future in the Autumn Court.

He fears one day that they'll see the shadows lurking behind the grandeur, the same shadows that shaped him.

He does everything he can to show them the beauty of the world first.

He takes them on long walks through the autumn woods, carrying them on his shoulders as he points out ancient trees and hidden streams.

He talks of a future where they might one day rule with kindness instead of fear, but it's a dream he keeps close to his chest, only revealing it in those quiet moments when they're alone under the red and gold canopy of leaves.

At the end of each day, Eris is always there to tuck his little ones into bed, not matter how many duties have filled his hours.

He lingers by their bedside, brushing stray hair from their face as he watches their breathing slow.

He’ll conjure a tiny firefly of light that hovers above their bed, casting a gentle glow, and he’ll murmur a quiet blessing in the old language, the words carrying warmth and protection.

He stays until their little fist unclenches from the fabric of his sleeve, and only then does he slip away, leaving the door open just a crack so he can hear their breaths through the night.

Lucien

Lucien never thought he’d be a father, but the day he holds his child for the first time, he feels something crack open inside him—a space he didn’t realize had been waiting to be filled.

His voice is soft, almost reverent, as he gazes down at the tiny bundle cradled in his arms, a rare hint of vulnerability in his usually confident eyes. “Hey, little one,” he murmurs, and his heart lurches when a tiny hand curls around his finger.

He doesn’t let go for a long time, marveling at how something so small could completely change his world.

Lucien’s favorite way to bond with his child is to take them out into the woods, cradling them close as he wanders through the sun-dappled forest paths.

He points out every little detail, from the way the leaves shift in the breeze to the shape of animal tracks on the ground.

As they get older, he’ll carry them on his shoulders, letting them tug at his long hair as he shows them secret clearings and hidden streams.

He tells them stories about the creatures that live in the woods—both real and mythical—and he likes to believe that with every step, he’s helping them fall in love with the natural world as much as he has.

Lucien has a way with babies that surprises even him.

It starts with his own child, whom he manages to soothe almost effortlessly.

When they cry, he instinctively picks them up, rocking them back and forth while humming old tunes from the Autumn Court that he learned from watching Eris with his own children.

Soon enough, the Inner Circle and his own brother starts jokingly calling him the “baby whisperer,” since he always manages to settle down even the fussiest little ones.

Despite his easygoing nature, Lucien’s protectiveness over his child runs deep.

He’s always hyper-aware of their surroundings, scanning the forest or the streets of the Day Court for anything that might pose a threat.

When they scrape their knee while playing, he’s instantly at their side, murmuring, “You’re as tough as they come, just like your mama and dad.”

Lucien is determined to raise his child to be kind and empathetic, so he leads by example. He teaches them how to care for the smallest creatures they find on their woodland adventures, like a baby bird that’s fallen from its nest or a fox cub separated from its den.

He’ll kneel down beside his child, showing them how to gently guide the animal back to safety. “We take care of the world, and it takes care of us,” he says softly, a lesson he wishes he’d learned sooner in his own life.

Lucien isn’t afraid to be openly affectionate with his child.

He’s always scooping them up into bear hugs, pressing kisses to the top of their head, and ruffling their hair.

He’ll carry them on his back and run through the woods, pretending they’re riding on a wild beast, much to their squealing delight.

When they start to get sleepy, he’ll tuck them into his side, wrapping them in his cloak as they sit together by a campfire, watching the stars flicker through the treetops.

Despite his easygoing demeanor, Lucien sometimes struggles with doubts about whether he’s a good father.

He worries that his own fractured past might somehow cast a shadow over his child’s future.

On sleepless nights, he’ll stand by their crib, watching them breathe and wondering if he’s doing enough to keep them safe from the dangers of the world. “I promise, I’ll give you a better life than I had,” he’ll whisper, smoothing a curl of hair away from their forehead.

When his child wakes up and smiles at him with unfiltered joy, he feels a flicker of reassurance—like maybe, just maybe, he’s doing something right.

Lucien wants his child to see the world as a place of endless wonder.

He’ll sit them down beside him as he watches the sunrise over the mountains of the Day Court, holding them close as the first rays of gold light wash over them.

He’ll point out the way the shadows shift as the sun climbs higher, whispering, “Look, the world’s waking up.”

When his child starts to understand, they’ll reach up to touch his scarred face, tracing the path of light across his eye, and Lucien feels a warmth in his chest that nothing else can match.

Above all, Lucien’s loyalty to his child is unbreakable.

He’s determined that they’ll never feel unwanted or unprotected the way he once did.

He tells them every day, “You’ll always have a place with me, no matter what,” his voice steady with the weight of that promise.

Even when they throw their worst tantrums or make a mess of his papers, he simply ruffles their hair and grins, saying, “You’ve got a spirit like wildfire. And that’s something worth protecting.”

Tamlin

Tamlin is terrified when his child is born.

For all the power he possesses as High Lord, holding something so small and fragile makes his hands shake.

Despite his awkwardness, he’s committed to learning, determined not to let his uncertainty stand in the way of being a good father.

He spends hours reading through ancient scrolls and asking the court’s healers for advice, anything that might help him understand how to care for a newborn.

He practices cradling them gently, murmuring words of comfort even when his voice comes out unsure. It’s a clumsy start, but his heart is in it, and the first time his child smiles at him, something in him starts to melt.

The Spring Court has always been a place of wild, vibrant beauty, and Tamlin takes pride in sharing that with his child.

From the earliest days, he takes them out into the gardens, wrapped snugly in soft blankets.

He shows them the blossoming flowers, the streams that weave through the estate, and the animals that roam the grounds.

As they grow, he lets them toddle through the grass, pointing out each new bloom and teaching them the names of plants, a quiet pride in his voice as he shares the secrets of his lands.

He shows them how to gently touch the petals of a daisy or listen to the hum of bees gathering nectar.

“This is our home,” he whispers, as they look up at him with wide eyes. “And I’ll make sure it’s beautiful for you.”

Tamlin’s protectiveness over his child is fierce and unyielding.

He knows all too well the dangers that lurk beyond the borders of the Spring Court, and he’s determined that those threats will never touch his child.

He layers their nursery with enchantments and wards, barriers that would keep out even the most persistent of threats.

But it’s not just about magic; Tamlin is always nearby, watching over them with his keen senses, ready to intervene at a moment’s notice.

When they fall and scrape their knee for the first time, his heart stops, and he rushes to their side, his expression a mix of relief and worry.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs, over and over again, pressing a kiss to their forehead as if trying to convince himself as much as them.

Tamlin has spent so long shrouded in sadness and anger that he’s almost forgotten what it’s like to laugh.

His child’s joy is infectious, and soon, he finds himself letting his guard down around them in ways he never imagined he could.

He chases them through the garden, letting them clamber onto his back as he pretends to be a wild beast, growling playfully.

Their laughter is a balm to his soul, and he treasures these moments more than he ever thought he would.

The first time he hears them call him “Papa,” he feels a lump in his throat and has to look away to hide the tears that well up in his eyes.

Tamlin has always had a love for music, though it’s a passion that’s grown quiet over the years. But when it comes to bedtime, he finds himself singing again, his deep voice carrying old Spring Court lullabies that his mother once sang to him.

He’ll sit by the window, his child tucked against his chest, singing softly as he watches the moon rise over the forest. The songs are gentle, filled with the magic of the earth and the stories of ancient creatures.

His child’s eyelids grow heavy, lulled by the warmth of his voice, and Tamlin feels a sense of peace settle over him that he hasn’t known in years.

Tamlin’s connection to nature becomes a way to bond with his child.

He teaches them to respect the animals of the Spring Court, showing them how to feed the deer that wander through the gardens or gently pet the soft fur of a fox cub.

He’ll hold their tiny hand as they release a butterfly back into the air, watching with a proud smile as their face lights up with wonder.

He wants his child to understand that their home is more than just a court—it’s a living, breathing place, one that needs to be cherished.

Tamlin carries a lot of guilt from his past, and becoming a father only makes those feelings more complicated.

He’s haunted by the mistakes he’s made, the lives lost under his leadership, and he worries that he’s not good enough for his child.

He often stands by their crib late at night, watching them sleep, his mind swirling with doubts. “You deserve better than me,” he whispers into the darkness, his voice barely a breath.

But when his child wakes and reaches out for him, clutching his finger with a sleepy smile, Tamlin feels a flicker of hope, as if maybe he still has a chance to make things right.

Tamlin isn’t always great with words, but he shows his love through small, thoughtful acts.

He’ll carve little wooden animals and leave them by his child’s bedside, each one carefully shaped to resemble the creatures of the Spring Court.

He’ll braid flowers into their hair or weave a crown of ivy for them to wear during their adventures through the garden.

On warm afternoons, he’ll take them down to the riverbank, showing them how to skip stones across the water, even if their tiny hands only manage to make a few splashes.

Slowly, as the years go by, Tamlin finds that his child’s presence has brought a bit of warmth back into his life.

He begins to smile more often, his laughter echoing through the halls of his estate. He finds himself hopeful for the first time in a long time, dreaming of a future where his child can grow up in a world free of war and bitterness.

He plants new flowers around the estate, hoping that one day his child will run through the fields of wildflowers with a carefree spirit.

Above all, Tamlin’s love for his child is like the Spring Court itself—wild, fierce, and enduring.

He would go to any length to protect them, standing between them and any danger that might come their way.

As much as he’s determined to keep them safe, he’s also learning to let them grow, to let them explore the world at their own pace, even if it means letting them wander a bit further into the woods each day.

He’s far from perfect, but he’s willing to try, and for his child, he’ll keep trying for as long as it takes. Because to Tamlin, his child represents a new beginning, a second chance to build a life worth living—not just for himself, but for the one he loves most.

Tarquin

When Tarquin first holds his newborn child, his heart swells with a joy that he didn’t know he could feel so deeply. He cradles them in his arms, looking down at their tiny face, and he can’t help but smile, a soft, awed expression taking over his usually calm demeanor.

He strokes a finger along their cheek, marveling at how small they are, and whispers, “You’re the most precious treasure the sea has ever given me.”

It becomes a sort of ritual for him, holding them close each night before bed, breathing in the sweet scent of their hair as if to remind himself that this isn’t just a dream.

Tarquin’s child is never far from the water, just like their father.

From the moment they’re old enough to toddle, he takes them down to the beaches of the Summer Court, their small hand held securely in his as they dip their toes into the warm, gentle waves.

He shows them how to find seashells along the shore, turning over rocks to reveal the tiny crabs and starfish hiding beneath.

As they grow older, he’ll teach them to swim in the clear blue waters, catching them in his arms whenever they dive in with a laugh that echoes across the beach.

The sea becomes their shared sanctuary, a place where they can be free and unburdened, where the worries of the court fade away with the tide.

Tarquin uses his magic to bring a bit of ocean wonder into his child’s life. He’ll create miniature whirlpools in their bath, making little water creatures dance in the currents, or conjure glowing fish to swim through the air at bedtime, casting soft blue light across the walls.

Sometimes, he’ll use his powers to shape the water into a gentle wave that rocks them to sleep, the motion like the gentle swaying of a ship.

Tarquin is fiercely protective of his child, but he has a calm, steady way of showing it. He makes sure the waters around their home are free of any danger, setting wards beneath the waves to keep away the creatures that lurk in the deep.

He also wants his child to understand that the sea, like life, is both beautiful and wild. He teaches them how to respect the ocean’s power, how to listen to the rhythm of the tides and understand the signs of a coming storm. “The sea can be our friend,” he tells them as they walk along the beach at sunset, “but only if we respect it.”

Bedtime is always a special time in Tarquin’s household, filled with stories of the ocean’s mysteries.

He’ll sit with his child on his lap, wrapped in a blanket, and tell them tales of underwater kingdoms, mythical sea creatures, and the great ships that have sailed through Summer Court waters over the centuries.

He paints pictures with his words of merfolk who sing to the moon, of hidden caves filled with pearls, and of daring adventures across the waves. His child listens with wide eyes, always begging for “just one more story,” and Tarquin is happy to oblige, his voice carrying the cadence of the waves as he speaks.

Tarquin is determined that his child will understand the importance of kindness and generosity, just as he strives to embody those qualities as High Lord.

He teaches his children to not view other children as lesser just because of their status. In fact, he encourages servants of the palace to bring their children to play with his own.

He’ll hold his child’s hand as they distribute baskets of fresh fruit to the workers in the fishing villages, explaining, “A good ruler is one who understands the citizen's needs.” He wants his child to see the beauty in giving back, and to grow up knowing that the strength of their court lies in the bonds between its citizens.

One of Tarquin’s favorite ways to unwind with his child is to dance with them under the stars, where the sea breeze whispers through the trees and the moonlight glistens on the waves. He’ll lift them in his arms and sway gently to the sound of the ocean, their laughter mixing with the soft rush of the surf.

As they grow older, he teaches them the traditional dances of the Summer Court, their small feet stepping clumsily alongside his at first, but growing more graceful with each passing season. “You’re a natural,” he’ll tell them with a proud smile, twirling them around until they both collapse onto the warm sand, breathless with laughter.

He brings them to the coral reefs where rainbow fish dart through the crystal-clear water, holding them up so they can look through the enchanted glass of the Summer Court’s underwater grottos.

He teaches them how to sail, guiding their hands on the ropes and showing them how to read the direction of the wind. When they stand on the deck of a ship together, feeling the wind in their hair and the salt on their lips, Tarquin can’t help but feel a surge of pride at the way his child’s face lights up with joy.

He makes a point of telling them every day how much he loves them, whether it’s during a quiet moment on the beach or when he’s tucking them into bed.

He believes in the power of words, and he wants them to know without a doubt that they are cherished. “You are my greatest treasure,” he tells them with a smile, ruffling their hair as they look up at him with adoring eyes.

And when they fall asleep in his arms, a sense of contentment settles over him like the gentle lull of the tide, reminding him that despite all the duties of being a High Lord, being a father is the role that brings him the greatest joy.

[charlesollielandooscararthur]

One Day at a Time

warnings: Breastfeeding??

Lucas is 12 weeks old — Y/n is 16 (Lucas only got out the hospital 2 weeks ago)

The house felt… too still.

Mum had left an hour ago, and I didn’t realise how loud her presence had been until it vanished completely. No cupboard doors slamming. No footsteps upstairs. No reminders or check-ins or passive little sighs that made me feel like a child again.

It was just me and Carlos now. And Lucas. Alone. For the first time.

At first, I tried to be brave.

I folded one of Lucas’s new onesies and tucked it in his drawer. I wiped down the changing table even though it was already clean. Carlos offered to put on a movie, but I just shook my head. My stomach was tight. Like waiting for something bad to happen.

And then it did.

Lucas’s cry tore through the quiet like a siren — high and sharp and panicked. It jolted me upright. The baby monitor had lit up before the sound even reached us. I moved fast, quicker than Carlos, straight down the hall to where Lucas was flailing in his bassinet, face scrunched and red.

I scooped him up instinctively, even though my arms were still sore from holding him so much earlier.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay,” I whispered, trying to get his swaddle loose. His cries got louder.

Carlos came in behind me, shirtless, hair sticking up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes.

“Again?” he murmured, voice groggy with his accent. “He cry again?”

“Yeah,” I muttered, shifting Lucas to my chest. “He’s hungry, I think.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, pulling up my top with one arm and cradling Lucas with the other. I tried to guide him to latch, but he jerked away, still crying. I adjusted. Tried again. Nothing.

My heart started thudding.

“Come on, baby... please…” I breathed, eyes stinging. I felt hot and overwhelmed and helpless. “You’ve done this. You know how to do this.”

Lucas twisted away again, his legs kicking against my stomach, little fists punching into the air like he was trying to fight me.

Carlos moved closer, watching carefully. “He no want milk?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I snapped, my voice too sharp. I winced instantly. “Sorry. I just… I don’t know what I’m doing.”

I tried again. Still nothing. Lucas was losing it now, his whole body arching and crying so hard he was gasping between sobs.

“Maybe… I try?” Carlos said softly.

I nodded quickly and handed Lucas over, not because I thought it would work but because my arms were shaking.

Carlos took him delicately, like he was holding something breakable. He shifted him against his chest, trying to pat his back, sway a little. Lucas screamed louder.

Carlos’s face fell. “He no like me,” he said, looking down at the baby helplessly. “Only you. Always you.”

The tears I’d been holding back finally spilled. I turned away, hands over my face, silently sobbing as Lucas wailed in the background.

“I’m not doing this right,” I choked out. “I can’t do this. I don’t know how to fix him. I don’t know how to be a mum. I’m only sixteen, Carlos. I don’t even know who I am yet, and I have to be everything for him. It’s not fair. It’s not—”

Carlos didn’t say anything. He just moved.

He sat beside me, still holding Lucas, and wrapped his free arm around me, pulling me in. Lucas was sandwiched between us, still crying, but for a second I didn’t care. I was crying too, and Carlos just held us both.

His voice was soft and rough and laced with that careful English he was still learning. “We learn… juntos,” he said against my hair. “Together, baby. Okay? One day at a time.”

I pressed my forehead to his shoulder and nodded, even though I didn’t know if I believed it yet.

Lucas’s cries finally slowed into hiccups. Carlos kissed the top of his tiny head. Then kissed mine.

“See?” he whispered. “Little bit better now.”

I looked down at Lucas, nestled in Carlos’s arms, still fussy but no longer screaming. My chest ached — with love, with guilt, with exhaustion. All of it. Every feeling, all at once.

We sat there like that for a long time.

The silence returned. But this time, it didn’t feel as scary.

Just still. Just us.

Carlos's hand stroked slowly down my spine as we sat there, his warmth steady, grounding. Lucas was still pressed between us, cheeks flushed from crying, fists curled tight like he was still trying to defend himself from a world that was too loud, too cold.

Carlos helped me up and we walked up to my room.

“I wanna try again,” I whispered, wiping the hot tears from my cheeks with the edge of my sleeve.

Carlos nodded, gentle. “Okay. You do… I help.”

I took a deep breath and reached for Lucas, his body damp with effort, his little chest hiccupping with leftover sobs. My arms ached from the weight of exhaustion — not just physical, but emotional too. I felt like I was unraveling, thread by thread.

I shifted him against my chest, one hand supporting the back of his neck. He rooted aimlessly, his mouth searching. I guided him to my breast again, this time breathing slower, calmer — trying to pretend I wasn’t terrified of failing again.

And then… finally… he latched.

Not perfectly. Not immediately. But his tiny mouth found me, and I felt the slight tug, the rhythm.

Relief hit me like a wave.

I let out a shaky breath and closed my eyes, tears dripping again — but not the hopeless kind. These were quieter. Softer.

Carlos noticed instantly. “He do it?” he whispered.

I nodded. “Yeah… he’s feeding.”

Carlos smiled — that lopsided smile he gets when he’s proud but trying not to make it a big deal. “Muy bien, mi amor… muy bien.”

Lucas’s breathing started to even out as he suckled. The room fell into a fragile peace, the kind you don’t trust yet because it might break again in five minutes. But I held onto it anyway.

I ran my fingers over Lucas’s hair, kissed the top of his head. “Good job, baby,” I murmured. “That’s it…”

Carlos sat in front of me, cross-legged on the bed, watching like I was magic. He looked younger like this — soft-eyed and tired and still somehow amazed that this was real. That we made this baby. That we were parents.

Once Lucas started to slow down, his mouth going lax, I gently unlatched him and shifted him to my shoulder, patting his back until he let out the tiniest burp — more like a puff of air. His body was warm against mine, heavy with sleep now. Calm.

I stood slowly, arms curved protectively around him, and padded softly across the room to the bassinet by our bed. I lowered him in carefully, like I was placing a fragile glass ornament down onto silk.

He stirred once, tiny hand twitching… then settled.

Carlos came up behind me, his hands on my waist, his chin on my shoulder as we stared down at him together.

“He so small,” he murmured. “Like… like bird.”

I smiled, leaning into him. “He’s perfect.”

We stood there in silence for a few more seconds, just watching him breathe.

Carlos pressed a kiss to the back of my neck, and I felt his lips move against my skin as he whispered, “We did okay, no?”

I nodded, my voice barely audible. “Yeah… we did okay.”

We slipped under the covers like ghosts, trying not to make a sound even though the mattress groaned beneath us. Carlos pulled the blanket up to my shoulders before climbing in beside me, moving carefully, like the air was made of glass.

The bassinet sat right next to my side of the bed. From where I lay, I could see Lucas’s tiny form, wrapped snugly, chest rising and falling in those soft newborn breaths that felt too quiet for how loud he’d been just twenty minutes ago. I kept staring at him, waiting for another sign of discomfort. A twitch. A squeak. Anything.

Carlos noticed.

“Y/n… sleep,” he whispered, brushing my hair gently back from my forehead.

I shook my head. “What if he wakes up again?”

He gave a soft exhale through his nose and cupped my cheek with his hand, calloused fingertips dragging slow over my skin. “Then we wake too,” he said simply. “But right now… he sleep. So you… sleep.”

His English was broken, gentle, like everything else about him tonight. I turned into his touch, letting the heat of his palm anchor me. My body was aching in ways I didn’t even have names for. My boobs were sore, my back was stiff, and I felt like I was wearing the exhaustion down to my bones. But the adrenaline had been keeping me going… until now.

Now, in the stillness of the room, with only the low hum of the monitor and the rise-fall rhythm of our son sleeping nearby… it hit me.

The quiet.

The enormity of everything.

“I’m still scared,” I whispered, barely able to admit it aloud.

Carlos didn’t respond right away. He just pulled me closer, wrapping his arms around my waist and pressing his forehead to mine. His skin was warm, his breathing slow, steady.

“Me too,” he murmured. “But you strong. You make baby. You feed him. You love him. You do all.”

I felt tears sting again, but I didn’t cry this time. I just pressed my nose to his chest and let myself finally melt.

“You’re a good dad,” I whispered.

He kissed my temple. “I try.”

The bed creaked a little as we shifted into each other, limbs tangled and heavy. Carlos kept one hand on my hip, the other near the edge of the bassinet — like he needed to be ready just in case.

I stared at Lucas one more time. Still asleep. Still safe.

Then finally — finally — I let my eyes close.

And for the first time in two weeks, I felt something close to rest.

[asher-agere]

Ooh Ashh i dreamed about little dazai and cg oda /gen. Now i can't stop thinking about them...

Also i woke up inspired? Maybe i'll try to continue writing my fic :>

Recently i've been thinking about creating a blog more personal to me, tho i'd only use it when using the computer, for some reasons. Then i'd feel comfortable not being on anon all the time hahahha (im shy and anxious all the time </3) what do ya think? I have sooo many headcannons about bsd, i think the blog would be just for them...

Love ya! -🦭

(Talking about anon stuff, if this isn't in anon mode, please ignore it... i say this because recently i had an ask of mine answered (not from you!) and it wasn't on anon mode and ot kinda freaked me out a bit hahahah)

I’VE BEEN WANTING TO RESPOND TO THIS ONE FOR SO LONG. FOR SO MANY REASONS? For starters baby Dazai and caregiver Odasaku is one of my favorites. They’re one of the few cases I actually view as a solid parental bond rather than the caregiver just being a vague role. Plus you should absolutely make a personal blog! Cause that means I can support you and interact with you more! Plus we always need more BSD agere content. Also an ask not in anon mode must’ve been so scary… Hopefully nothing bad came from it? (That’s also another reason supporting personal blog :^)

Little Dazai + Caregiver Odasaku

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

₊ ⊹ These two have known each other since Dazai was 14, Odasaku has seen first hand that Dazai was forced to grow up way too fast. And well. He’s always had a soft spot for kids. Dazai is no different. Dazai regresses to 2-5, which is just a bit younger than the orphans Odasaku takes care of! I don’t remember exactly what age he took the orphans in at but surely he dealt with them when they were at least somewhat in that age range, so he’d got experience! With Dazai’s age range specifically! This makes him even better at taking care of Dazai!

₊ ⊹ Odasaku is a writer! You know what that means? All the bedtime stories ever! He writes his own bedtime stories to read to Dazai, he’ll turn Dazai’s babbling tales into a story, Dazai can even help him write! A lot of the time Dazai just wants to hear his caregivers voice, he doesn’t care what’s being said, so Odasaku will just talk about some writing ideas he’s had! Dazai is happy to supply his ideas! Odasaku tones them down a bit of course, and doesn’t always use them (Cats with laser eyes don’t really fit into a story about pirates… But maybe a pirate ship can have a cat aboard)

₊ ⊹ I think Odasaku has tried before to let Dazai play with his orphans, he thought it would be a good idea! But… Dazai gets overwhelmed really easily, especially while he’s regressed. Not to mention jealousy and all those other yucky emotions! Odasaku is his. Just his. Plus what if these kids think he’s weird? They wouldn’t of course, Odasaku didn’t raise them to be judgmental. But still… And he’ll lash out with bites or hitting if he gets to overwhelmed! Needless to say that’s a play date that only happens once

₊ ⊹ Lashing out is a common thing with Dazai. Most babies have the instinctive reaction to cry when things go wrong, Dazai learned very young that crying doesn’t help you. Fighting does. He feels bad after of course! He never wants to hurt Odasaku! But Odasaku reassures him that it’s ok! He never uses a harsh tone, always just gently reminds Dazai “We don’t hurt” If Dazai is so overwhelmed he won’t listen to reason though a swaddle is the solution! Wrap him up nice and tight in a blanket so he can’t move much, a pacifier in his mouth so he can’t bite or scream, then they stay like that until Dazai wears himself out! He never got a chance to show his true emotions. So if a tantrum is how he chooses to express those emotions of course Odasaku allows him to get it all out

₊ ⊹ Nicknames!! Odasaku uses the sweetest pet names for his baby, and everything sounds so poetic when he says it! “Sweetheart” is definitely a big one, but he can’t be to sweet with pet names or Dazai gets defensive, so he’ll also use more casual ones like “Buddy”! There’s also “Little One” but that has to be used carefully! Only when Dazai is right on the edge of regressing, usually when he’s a little worn out and less likely to fight it. And then of course! What does Dazai call Odasaku? I view them as a father son relationship because. Even regression aside I view them that way. Regression just makes it feel even cozier. So I think Dazai calls him “Da”. He’s trying to say “Oda” But to many syllables… Odasaku points out that it sounds like “Dada” and Dazai denies it if course! But… That’s his “Da” he stops even trying to say “Oda”

₊ ⊹ I think that when Dazai’s in more of a toddler headspace they play a lot of card games! It’s very nostalgic for them considering they played a lot of card games when they first met. Like a lot a lot. It was how they bonded! Of course Dazai always calls Odasaku out on cheating, in response Odasaku calls out Dazai’s clumsy attempts at hiding cards up his sleeve. Dazai of course denies this, and Odasaku denies his own cheating. This usually leads to Dazai pouting, but nothing on tantrum level! Just upset he isn’t getting his way. Odasaku tried betting with candy before but the Dazai takes it to serious and it does ends in a tantrum

₊ ⊹ Dazai is weird with food, he’s noted to be underweight, especially in Mafia Era (The only time Odasaku was alive) Baby Dazai only drinks milk or formula. No solid foods. He’s a baby through and through. However toddler Dazai plays a silly game with Odasaku! He requests specific ways for all his food to be poisoned and Odasaku says he does it! For example if Dazai requests a poisonous flower, Odasaku takes a harmless flower and puts it in the dish in front of Dazai! Odasaku has to make his own food separate though to keep up the illusion. Dazai refuses to let Odasaku eat the ‘poisoned’ food

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺˖⁺‧₊˚ ♡ ˚₊‧⁺˖༻ੈ✩‧₊˚

This was supposed to be up way earlier, but where I live there’s no power. Anywhere- On the entire island- So that’s fun. So posting might be slow the next couple of days. But I finished this while my parents were using the generator! So yay! Also I keep bring inbox notifications but then there’s nothing there… Kinda weirded out

[ask-postcrash-curly]

Oh, Curly. Curly, Curly, Curly. It's Mum.

You should not have had to hear any of my upset, and for that alone I am sorry. I hope I did not unsettle you even more. I cannot — I just cannot stand idle listening to them exacerbate your anxieties like that, especially regarding us. "An eye for an eye" is no philosophy of mine, but far too often I have encountered those who believe that kindness is synonymous with faint-heartedness. Perhaps some of them will learn, now. (Though I am rather doubtful.)

I know that I said that I would share my plans with you next, and while I am, of course, more than eager to do so — I feel it must wait for now. There will always be plenty of time to discuss things moving forward, after all. But I believe...

Perhaps I should finish telling you about Shrike and I. You remember, yes? My old friend.

...

As I have mentioned before, we were practically joined at the hip, she and I. Since grade school! No worries back then but for the two of us, birds, and ballet. That is, until Sebastian came around — but even still, Shrike was the first person I told of my pregnancy. She didn't... she did not like it one bit. I suppose it had been quite the wrench in our future plans. Day and night, she tried her hardest to convince me to abort. I very nearly did. I was terrified. But... whenever I sat alone, with the birds and the little life sprouting inside of me, I... I just could not stomach the thought of it.

Sebastian left me soon after. I was as heartbroken as any young lady would be. And despite her disapproval, Shrike remained at my side throughout every hardship of my pregnancy. I was relieved to know that we were still as close as we had ever been. Closer then, even. So very, heart-wrenchingly close.

As you know, Kestrel was born prematurely. Shrike and my mother were both there for me throughout the entire ordeal. She held me as I cried after the nurses had to take him away from me. I felt... so lost.

I have reason to believe that by that point it was already too late for us.

...

It was not until months after Kestrel was born that she... that I began to notice the creeping differences in her attitude. The irritation, the cold shoulder towards me whenever I was focused on his care. The reluctance to try and bond with him. Babies are hard work, especially whereas Kestrel's poor immune system was not up to par yet. And he was quite the fussy little hatchling. I am eternally grateful that Mom had my back during those times. I would not have made it without her. Shrike, though... she would have rather focused on our relationship and her dancing career. I - I did not mind that she wished for that, at all. All that I asked was that she make a little room for Kestrel, too.

After that she seemed... more willing. Eager, even. I was surprised but delighted whenever she made more of an effort to help us care for him. But she — there was... something off. Something wrong. Something about the way she would smile at him. It made me uneasy. Not long after, Shrike began to show her... true colors. She was too rough with handling him, be it playing or helping me bathe and swaddle him. She liked to tease him in a mean manner, which often made him cry. (He was very sensitive.) Mom no longer trusted that she was not going to hurt him, and I... I began to lose that trust, as well. Loathe as I was to even admit it to myself. And she became increasingly agitated with our reluctance to let her around him.

I remember lying awake with her arms wrapped around me, and all that I could think about was her hands. Her... pretty hands. I loved her, I did — but beneath it there was a blooming terror that if I did not keep her hands on me in the night, I would awaken to find them on Kestrel instead. I didn't know what to do. Mom had expressed to me that she was more than ready to be rid of her — but how could I have done that? I used to think she was everything to me, my entire world. I did not wish to believe that feeling was fading. And yet... when I looked into the cradle beside my bed... when I could see Kestrel finally sleeping soundly, without aid or discomfort...

But I had still let it go on for far too long...

...

It had happened while Mom was out. Kestrel was still learning how to walk, and Shrike had intentionally tripped him. He fell hard and bruised his sweet face. I was horrified, and snapped at her. She attempted some sense of reason — that she was only being hard on him to "toughen him up," and that he needed to learn to get back onto his feet whenever life decided to "blindside" him. Perhaps there was a grain of truth to her words, but he was not even a year old yet! Everything that I had been keeping tightly wrapped since Sebastian left came undone. I lost my temper with her. She fought back. I do not... remember much of what was said. I tried to leave to soothe Kestrel elsewhere, and she pushed me hard enough to have made me stumble with him in my arms. I nearly fell. I was shocked at her retaliation. I could not take it, she had never—

...

I can remember Kestrel crying in my ear as I shielded him with my own body, cowering in the bathtub. I remember the door pounding so, so loudly while Shrike frantically screamed at me from the opposite side. I do not know how long it went on for... I was merely prepared to protect him however I could. I remember hearing my mother's voice. A struggle. Police sirens. I remember feeling... nothing at all. For days afterwards. Numbness. And then I felt... everything at once. I hated her. I loved her. I missed her. And then she was finally gone.

... It's a bit funny, how one word can change the meaning of an entire sentence without much intent to. "Finally." I do love... my sweet words. I still... I still do own the ridiculously large dictionary and thesaurus she gifted to me for my sixteenth birthday. It is at the very top of my shelves, where I cannot easily reach it.

I know that... you are perhaps wondering why I have decided to tell you this now, of all times. It is not exactly the most... comforting or reassuring story in my repertoire. I have had two decades to sit with these feelings, trying to pick apart every last of the why's and what if's and if only's. Two decades to slowly come to terms with the fact that my Shrike had, in fact, abandoned me the moment that Sebastian was gone, too. That once I was with child, she no longer saw me for who I was — but as something she needed to take back from him. All that she cared for was satiating her own jealousy by skewering my raw emotions on a barbed wire to claim for herself. And eventually it festered into hatred for an innocent child. And time and time again, I had failed to protect him from her cruelty.

...

All this to say, Curly... My dearest blue jay...

Neither you nor Kestrel will ever be capable of wounding me in the way that Shrike has. In the way that Jimmy has. You are crying over the mere thought of doing so, sweetheart, and it does ache so! But that is not the same as... as someone you love intentionally aiming for where it will hurt you the most. Not in the slightest.

There is a certain degree of hurt that will always accompany loving your own, you know; it is simply an inevitability of motherhood. My mom warned me of this when I was pregnant and terrified of the decisions I had to face. "It will feel as though your own heart has climbed out of your chest and begun to run away from you!" she said. I am sure your mother knows the feeling all too well, herself. "You will do your best to keep it safe, but it is an adventurous and bumbling little thing. And alongside them you are going to feel every bump, bruise, scrape, and cut that they get along the way. It is just how life goes."

But she also told me that the love is worth the hurt. Tenfold. One hundredfold. Infinitefold. It is worth it for every smile, every laugh, every hug. For every dance, every report card, every sour candy. Every Valentine's Day. Every dry joke, every defiant "fuck off," every time the confidence rises back into their voice. Every "Mum."

You are worth it, Grant Curly Warbler.

Has anybody ever told you that...? Truly?

You are worth it. You are worth whatever hurts you think you may have caused me, and a million more. And you always will be. Infinitefold. No if's, and's, or but's about it. None. Never.

You are well aware that I would not have given up keeping Kestrel for all of the fame and fortune and everlasting peace the world had to offer me. And I will tell you right now, I had already made the very same decision from the moment I asked you, "Would I have to sign any papers?" Yes, I am aware that you thought that was a joke. I assure you that it was not, and never has been.

Do you really believe you've taken advantage of me by wishing for my love? Then you shall have to hold me accountable for much the same. And do not even think about trying to tell me that your reasons for loving me are "selfish" and mine are "pure," Grant Curly — that is not how love works.

And do you really believe that you've "manipulated" me into loving you? Hah, haha, well then, that must make Kestrel a cunning mastermind! You should have seen his little baby face and those big, sensitive brown eyes! I was doomed from the very moment I held him in my arms. How utterly diabolical, hahahah!

I love you, sweet pea, and what I decide to do with that is my decision. So — with all due respect — please do not speak as though I am a foolish child needing to be talked out of a rash idea. I have had enough of that for one lifetime.

And much the same goes for you, too. I know that I call you "my boy" and "baby" quite often — that is because you always will be, in my heart. I am sure your parents would agree. But by no means does that make you a foolish child, either, and I have never thought you as such. You are just as capable of making your own decisions about your own life. So if... if you are truly uncomfortable with the idea of being here, with me, then I understand. I would like to discuss it soon, yes? What matters to me in the end is that you are safe and happy, wherever you may end up next.

And... if I could ask of you — please do not breathe a word of Shrike to Kestrel. I have... I have never told him about her involvement in his life, and how that may have affected his development. I was not ready to tell him, not yet. But I know that he deserves to know. I will... do my best to find a good time for him. Thank you, for helping me find the right words.

(And, you know, I did not eat that much meat to begin with, dear. I am hardly missing out on anything at all. That bacon was for Kestrel, haha! I do believe he could eat half of my weight in it if he tried.)

.♡.

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UGbOqadHb0]

Oh. Hey…

No, you don’t need to apologize. I misinterpreted; that’s on me. I appreciate you defending me.

Okay. Okay, whatever you’d prefer.

Right. Yeah, I remember. I remember hearing about him too. Bunch of assholes from what I recall. …Sorry.

Well, I’m glad you didn’t listen. Not her choice to make, yeah? Just… just yours.

That must have been terrifying for you, I can’t imagine…

I’m sorry, what? She didn’t want you… taking care of your newborn baby?? Premature at that??

Fuck. That’s terrible. What sort of person is mean to a fucking baby?? Certainly don’t blame you two for not wanting her around him, Christ. You don’t need a parenting class to know not to be mean to a baby, for fuck’s sake!

Oh. You know that I, uh, know how that is. I am so sorry that you know how it is too.

Me too.

What the fuck is wrong with her?! Toughen him up?! He was a bloody baby! Not even a year old—! I don’t blame you for losing your temper after that! …She pushed you? You never— I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

…Fucking hell. I’m… I’m so sorry. You didn’t deserve any of that. I know how much it hurts to— I’m so sorry. I never realized how much you understood… And with Kestrel too. It’s awful. I can’t imagine. Or, well… I can. I’m sorry.

Finally gone, still somehow too soon, and not anywhere near soon enough.

A little, yeah. I’m not… upset about it. Just… upset for you, I suppose. God, I’m sorry. And I’m sorry if… if I’m being too self-centered in correlating our experiences. Can’t help but make those connections. Anya, I— I wonder sometimes if the reason he hurt her was because of me. If he saw us as friends and got jealous and— I don’t know. There’s no point. I don’t know what I could have done to change that in his mind.

Okay… okay, I mean, of course I’d never hurt you on purpose, but— That’s the point…? Okay. Okay, yeah, I understand what you’re saying, I think, it’s— it’s different… when it’s to hurt you. With intention. With— with cruelty.

…

It is?

…!

I don’t know, I don’t know. God…

Okay. I’m sorry. I love you. Thank you, Mum.

Sorry. Not upset. Just… overwhelmed, is all.

I know, yeah. You probably should remind him that. …So you were serious, then? I never thought… Thank you…

I don’t know. I didn’t… I didn’t think you were serious, at first. You know that. I was so fucking lonely and desperate and you were so wonderful and kind to me… I wasn’t— I wasn’t being fair to you. Even when it hurt you, I wanted you to stay and—

Well, that’s different, yeah? Babies, they’re evolved to do that or something! It’s not the same, he wasn’t doing it on purpose and— Ah. You’re teasing me. Right.

…I’m sorry. Okay. I didn’t mean it like that. I won’t… I love you too. And it’s… it’s your choice, I know that. And I know you know what you’re doing. I’m just scared. Don’t want to lose you. Don’t want to hurt you like I did everyone else.

It’s silly. I feel like a child sometimes. Like even after all these years I still don’t know anything at all. But I do— I do want you here, I really do. I’m scared to lose you. I don’t want to be alone. So if you’ll have me, if it doesn’t hurt you— Please stay…

Of course. Yeah. I won’t. I promise. Hopefully he wasn’t listening to this, then… I hope it goes over well. Thank you for trusting me with this. Love you.

(Okay. Good to know.)

This is nice…

Thank you, Mum. So much.

[mothellie]

Don't You Worry jason carver / eddie munson

rated teen + up, established relationship, new parents, implied past abuse, trauma, mild panic attacks, emotional hurt/comfort, light angst

read on archive of our own

"for munver, maybe a prompt 'learning to be gentle'?" - static-fucking-mess

Jason was a bad parent.

Eddie would argue otherwise, and he knew that. But Eddie wasn't awake right now. He wasn't here to ward away the thoughts that ate away at the delicately-crafted fail-safes Eddie had helped instill in him like acid.

Simon wailed in his arms as Jason bounced him softly, doing his best to cradle his head in the correct position. The nurse had showed him how a dozen times, because he hadn't been sure he could trust his own memory enough. He left the hospital carrying that insecurity with him regardless.

All the baby books he had read stressed how delicate newborns were. That you had to treat them like the finest China. One wrong move and you could end up a grieving parent.

Anxiety bubbled up his gut and into his chest, the stress twisting his face and tightening his muscles. He shushes the baby softly, trying a different bouncing pattern. "It's okay, angel. I- I got you.."

Eddie was so much better at calming the baby than Jason was. The metalhead would just bundle their son into his tatted arms and sing a soft rendition of some Black Sabbath song he'd been learning on guitar until the cries quieted.

Jason had called it magic. Eddie had laughed.

Eddie was better at everything, it seemed. It had intimidated Jason in the beginning of their relationship. He could absolutely shred a song on his guitar, he was a brilliant storyteller, and he was a pretty amazing father. This man was the full package if Jason had ever seen one.

All Jason was really good at was high school basketball, and that wasn't getting him anywhere. It wasn't like he was going to go pro. He wasn't even going to college.

Eddie always told him that was okay. That college wasn't for everyone. That he made enough to support them on one income and all Jason had to do was 'sit at home and be pretty as always.'

He truly didn't deserve that man. Not when he was this spectacularly awful at simple tasks.

No matter what he seemed to do tonight, it only served to make Simon cry more. This tiny human being was relying on him to be a source of comfort, and he couldn't even provide that.

Jason was always acutely aware that he used to be this small once. He had been this small and this delicate, and his parents still couldn't keep themselves from hurting him. How was he supposed to be sure he wouldn't do the same?

Burning tears formed on Jason's lash line, his throat growing impossibly tighter. His face crumbled, a few wet drops forming on Simon's swaddle. He felt tight all over, fingers starting to shake slightly around his child.

"I'm sorry," Jason croaked quietly to the boy who was far too young to understand the weight of his words. "I'm trying."

"I know you are." A voice mumbled from behind him, strong arms wrapping around his body and bracketing his own.

Eddie nosed his shoulder, pressing a gentle kiss there. "He won't go down?"

Jason shook his head, hiccupping through the sobs escaping his throat. "I-I tried the bouncing a-and the- the-"

Eddie shushed him, this time kissing the shell of his ear. "He's crying because he knows you're stressed. It's making him stressed."

"Please take him." Jason felt like no matter what he did, he was just making it worse. Like destruction and unrest were embedded in the print of his hands, destined to ruin everything he dared to touch.

"No." Was all Eddie said in response, gentle but firm.

"Eddie, please, I can't-"

But Eddie was no longer listening, instead rubbing smooth patterns into the back of his hands. He began to sway them back and forth, leaving more kisses across the expanse of his neck and ear. "Just breathe... In for four, hold for four, out for six... Like we talked about..."

It takes some more coaching, but Jason finally began following along with Eddie's demonstrations. Until the breathing came naturally and he barely needed to wait for Eddie's prompting.

Before he can even realize it, Simon's sobs quieted, happily asleep in their arms.

If Jason wasn't so emotionally spent, he would've celebrated. Eddie gave them both a gentle squeeze. "C'mon, let's put him down."

All Jason can do is nod, slipping out of Eddie's hold and gently lowering Simon back into his crib. He turned back to Eddie, who now wore a gentle smile. There were deep bags under his eyes, clearly still tired. It made guilt pool in Jason's gut again.

Eddie reached out and takes Jason's hand, guiding him out of the nursery. But, instead of taking a left towards their bedroom, he goes right. Jason's brows furrowed as he's led to the living room. Eddie placed him on the couch, sitting him on the coffee table so they were at eye level.

"You said you would wake me up if that ever happened again, baby." Eddie's tone is anything but chastising, concerned eyes roaming his husband's face.

Jason hung his head down, lacing his fingers together between his legs. "You were exhausted-"

"So are you."

Fingers capture Jason's chin, forcing his face back up towards Eddie. "Talk to me." His voice was pleading, searching Jason's eyes for any indication of what might be going on behind them.

Jason was too weak to fight it, face twisting with more tears as his eyes fall closed. "I'm no good, Eds. I'm gonna fuck him up, I know I'm gonna-"

"Hey, no-" Eddie cut him off, vigorously shaking his head. "Jace, don't say that. We talked about this."

"I can't even hold him without tensing up. You saw him in there, he hates me." Jason made a vague gesture in the direction of the nursery before dropping his arm.

"He does not hate you, baby. He's not even two weeks old yet-"

"He cries every time I try and hold him."

"Because you're always so anxious, you never relax around him-"

"Eddie."

Eddie pursed his lips to stop himself, a thoughtful expression on his face. He gave a small nod, encouraging Jason to finish his point without further interruption.

Jason sighed, shoulder's slumping. "I can't seem to do anytime right with him, Eddie. I'm failing him at every turn. I'm scared he's gonna grow up and resent me the way I do my dad. I thought I was ready for this, I did. But... fuck." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and threading his fingers through his own hair.

Eddie was quiet for an almost worrying amount of time. Jason started to wonder if Eddie was mad at him. He couldn't imagine that being the case, Eddie never having been the type to be quick to anger over things like this. But that didn't stop Jason's stomach from rolling over at the thought coupled with the silence.

However, Eddie finally broke the tension by cupping Jason's face. He doesn't even have to guide his face upwards this time, Jason instinctively easing into the warm touch of his love.

Brown eyes met misty blue, the pad of the metalhead's thumb brushing Jason's cheekbones tenderly.

"I'm scared, too." Eddie said simply, almost chuckling at the way Jason's face screws in confusion and borderline offense. "I'm serious."

"Okay, but-" Jason wobbled his head in some vague gesture of bewilderment. "How come you're..." His words trailed off, eyes searching.

"Not completely losing it?" Eddie supplied, no hint of condescension or judgment. Jason can only nod.

A puff of breath escaped Eddie's lips as he looks up at the ceiling, as if the answer were somewhere in popcorn pattern. After a long pause, he met Jason's eyes, a sudden fondness in his gaze. "Because of you?"

Before Jason could even question his words, Eddie continued. "When we first decided that we... wanted this... I was waking up in cold sweats. Kept having nightmares that I dropped our kid, or I hit them, or that I was some other god awful excuse of a parent."

Jason felt his stomach drop. He hadn't had the slightest idea any of that was happening. He thought Eddie took everything better than he did during this entire process. He almost asked Eddie why they never talked about it, but that would've made him a hypocrite.

Eddie smiled then, brushing some hair behind Jason's ear. He'd been growing it out on Eddie's suggestion, shaggy blonde hair now haloing his head. Eddie called Jason his angel.

"But then I saw you. This... badass force of nature. Someone who looked his own family lineage in the eyes and said definitively that you wanted to be different. You threw yourself into every parenting book and online course and YouTube.. whatever-the-fuck." He chuckled, sounding almost disbelieved. "Nobody has this stuff figured out from the get-go. No one wants to admit it, but every first time parent is terrified. It's completely natural, even for people who haven't been hurt the way you have. But you didn't let that stop you from putting your all into this. All because you wanted nothing more than to give this kid the best possible life he could ever have. The life neither of us ever got to have."

Jason started tearing up again, but Eddie was quick to start wiping them away as soon as they fell, smile never wavering. "And I thought... 'fuck, if Jason Alexander Munson of all people can be brave about this, then I can be too.'"

As another soft sob left Jason's lips, Eddie pulls him into a tight hug. "You are the most metal person I've ever known. If anyone can get this parenting shit on lock, it's you."

It took Jason another few minutes to calm down, face puffy and nose clogged. But he felt a lot less heavy, so at least that was something.

"Thank you..."

"You always thank me for all the tiniest things."

"Yeah, but this isn't tiny."

Eddie hummed, seemingly unable to argue against that. He pressed a kiss to Jason's forehead before they separated. "Are you ready to go back to bed now?"

Jason thought for a moment before shaking his head. "You go ahead. I just need some time to myself."

Eddie seemed reluctant, but ultimately conceded. "Just... don't stay up too late, okay?" Jason smiled then, small but prominent on his face even in the moonlit room. "I won't, I promise."

Satisfied with that answer, leaning forward to peck Jason's lips before getting up.

Jason wasn't sure how long he sat there in actuality. If you said anywhere between five minutes and two hours, he would've believed you.

His thoughts cycled through many different things. Memories of his parents, memories of his earlier years with Eddie, memories of their wedding day-

But slowly, through the quiet chaos, a resolve started to take hold in Jason's chest. One moment, he was on the couch. The next, he was padding down the hallway in the direction of the nursery.

He stands over his sleeping son, just watching him for a while. The rise and fall of his little chest through the dinosaur-print swaddle Dustin had gifted them at the shower. The way his little nostrils periodically flared with his breaths.

Jason hesitated, wiping his clammy palms on his pajama pants as he tried to hype himself up.

If anyone can get this parenting shit on lock, it's you.

With the delicacy of disarming a live bomb, Jason reached into the crib, gently picking up Simon and maneuvering him into his arms. The infant startled slightly, which almost made Jason lock up all over again.

But Eddie's words rang in his head, over and over like a broken record. I got this.

Keeping his body as relaxed as possible, he started to sway in a pattern he'd seen Eddie do a lot. After a lot of internal debate, he starts to hum Here Comes the Sun by The Beatles. It wasn't Ozzy, by any means, but he hoped it was soothed Simon all the same.

Gradually, Simon's soft fussing dissipated, relaxing back into peaceful sleep while still in Jason's arms.

A wave of intense emotions hit Jason like a tidal wave, unsure if he should laugh or cry. But he does neither, biting his tongue as he sat down in the rocking chair as carefully as he could manage.

He knew he needed to sleep soon, and he really wouldn't stay up long. But with the moon illuminating the nursery, his son in his arms, he found it hard to find any reason to favor sleep over this.

Jason wasn't in a rush.

[sticktopia]

Happy Accidents (RocketPrincess AU)

When a drunken one-night stand leaves Mango with an accidental pregnancy, he has to figure out how to keep his secret safe. Turns out, it's easier said than done when the baby's other parent is literally his boss.

Chapter 14

Victim sighed as they sat at their desk, face buried in their hands. They took a moment to calm themself down. Once the hollowhead could think clearly, they began to reflect on the day.

“I was sure I had it down by now.” They sighed. It’s been a whole month since Vic learned that Mai was his daughter, and they thought they knew everything they needed to care for her properly. The hollowhead began to look back. Remembering the night the truth was revealed to them.

^^^^^^^^^^

“She is my daughter… By the creators, I have a daughter…!” Victim gasped as they held the baby girl tightly. Smith let out a breath of relief as Victim held their daughter.

“Yes, Mai is your daughter.” Smith sighed, plopping down in a chair and rubbing his face tiredly. Victim hummed before a thought came to mind.

“Wait, if Mai is my daughter, then who attacked Mango?” Victim asked, sternly.

“Loan sharks. Apparently, Mango was seriously indebted to them. So they went to “Collect their prize”.” Smith explained, his gaze falling to his folded hands. “They were going to take Mai from him.”

Victim felt their blood begin to boil. How dare those leeches take advantage of Mango? How dare they milk Mango for every last penny he owned? That must have been why Mango was so stressed and trying to earn more money. Hell, it was probably even the reason that Mango came back to work so early into his paternity leave.

“Which one?” Victim growled. Smith glanced up at his boss.

“”Scuse me?”

“Which Loan shark?” Victim demanded, anger seething through his tone.

“It was Shark sir. He and some of his underlings broke into the house and tried to kidnap Mai.” Smith said. Victim scoffed. Of course it was that bastard. Victim had run into him a few times before. He was one hell of an asshole. Victim then began to speak.

“You know what needs to be done.” Victim growled, venom dripping from their voice.

“Yes sir.” Smith nodded, pressing the pin on his lapel.

“Hazzard, do you copy?”

“Yes sir.”

“Did you detain them?’

“Detained and unarmed, Just waiting for the command.”

“Blow their heads off.”

“Of course.” Smith cut the line, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Creators, this isn't how I thought Mai’s first Birthday was going to go.” The agent sighed.

“Well, I guess life has its own cruel humor.” Victim hummed. Mai suddenly began to fuss in Victim’s arms, softly crying and squirming. The hollowhead tenses as the one year old began to get grumpier.

“Um,” Victim’s anger quickly melted into panic as Mai began screaming again. Smith silently stood and held his arms out for Mai. Victim paused for a moment. They honestly didn't want to hand their daughter over, but they didn't know what to do. So they reluctantly handed the wailing child over to the agent, who took the girl into his arms. Agent Smith then began bouncing her and patting her back.

“Shhhh, sshhhhh, You're ok princess. Uncle has you.” He whispered to the child, nuzzling her and calming her down. Mai calmed to a sniffle.

“Papa…” She wept.

“I know, I know you want Papa. But Papa is… Sleeping. You gotta sleep too Princess.” Smith tried to usher the baby to sleep, but she fought him.

“Noooooo Papa!” She cried again. Smith sighed before going to the carseat, grabbing the crocheted blanket and wrapping her up in it. Mai slowly calmed down, she began to close her eyes.

“There you go.” The agent said as he placed her in the car seat. However the second he put her down, she cried again, squirming and freeing her arms from the swaddle and reaching for agent Smith. The CEO and the agent jumped as she burst into tears again.

“Ah, no no it’s ok.” Smith said as he picked her up again. As he held her, Mai quickly calmed down. She leaned into his shoulder, sniffling and whimpering.

“Strange, she was fine being put down before.” Smith hummed.

“It may be the fright from earlier. She must not want to be alone.” Victim observed.

“Mmm, yes that makes sense.” Smith said, patting Mai’s back. Victim watched as the agent hushed and soothed Mai. Victim knew he shouldn't be, but the sight before them made them feel bitter. They were Mai’s other parent. They should be the one comforting their daughter. Jealousy began to fill Victim’s heart when they realized just how much time everyone got to spend with THEIR daughter. It was then Victim decided that they were going to start playing a much bigger role in Mai’s life.

^^^^^^^^^^

Victim sighed as he sat at his desk glancing over to the bedroom door. Mango still hadn’t come out. They wondered if he was napping with Mai, or maybe she didn't want to be put down again. Victim debated whether or not to go in and check up on Mango and their daughter, but decided not to in fear of accidentally waking the sleeping princess, or even waking Mango if he was resting as well.

Victim sighed as they contemplated more. They thought about the day they announced to the company that Mai was their daughter. Oh the mixed emotions from the employees were… Something.

^^^^^^^^^^

The halls seemed to buzz with rumors and gossip as Victim stood with Mai on their hip. They were watching as the movers moved Mango’s belongings into their room. They could hear the whispers, hear their employees daring each other to go talk to them. Curious, yet afraid to ask.

“Sir,” Smith’s voice drew Victim’s attention. “Mango’ and Mai’s things have been set up. It’s ready for them.”

“Good.” Victim said as he adjusted the child on his hip. Mai cooed and squealed.

“Baba! Baba!” Mai squealed, nuzzling Vic’s shoulder. Victim couldn't help but smile.

“Yes, Baba is right here.” They chuckled as they kissed her forehead. The sudden sound of running footsteps caught their attention.

“The hell was that?” Smith muttered.

“Gossipers.” Vic sighed, rolling their eyes. “Oh well. At least they will do my job for me.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh they’ll just tell everyone else that Mai is mine.” Victim chuckled as they ticked the girl, making her squeal with joy.

“Is that really a good idea?” The agent asked.

“Is what a good idea? Those people telling others that I’m Mai’s sire?”

“Yeah. I mean, won’t there be a lot of… controversy?” Victim thought about the agent’s words. They never considered “controversy”. To their knowledge, Mango is a well respected employee at the company.

“I do not believe I follow.” Victim said, adjusting the squirming child on his hip once again.

“Well, some may believe that there may be favoritism. Considering that Mango had moved up the ranks so quickly, and now you have a child with him.” Smith mentioned. Victim hummed as they processed the information.

“Those are good to consider.” Victim mumbled. “However, it will be found out eventually. It would be better to rip off the bandaid now rather than later.”

Within minutes, Victim was swarmed by employees asking various questions. Many asked them if he and Mango were romantically involved and planned to keep Mai’s heritage a secret forever, others asked if Mango baby trapped Victim. Of course, all the wild theories were denied and disproven. But it was almost startling how dark and morbid the workers got considering Victim and Mango’s relationship.

^^^^^^^^^^

Victim paused as he thought about that. Their relationship with Mango. What even was it at this point? They are parents to the same child and that was it right? They were simply working together to take care of their accidental offspring.

But… something caused Vic to sleep with Mango that night, despite how drunk they were. Was it because he was there? Or was it because Victim had been drawn to the technician for his great skill prior to meeting him at the party? Victim thought about the reasons for a while. But they eventually drew a blank. Slowly, their thoughts were drawn to the present. They don’t know why their drunken self felt that way then, but how did their sober self feel about Mango now? Truly, the admiration was still there. Mango is a hard worker, hard workers are always admirable people. Mango is cool. He makes Victim smile and feel comfortable when they speak., and he seems to like that Mai is calm with them as well. It’s just a casual co-parenting relationship. Nothing less, nothing more… Nothing more…

^^^^^^^^^^

Victim watched from the window as Mango sat in the med bay, eating with one hand and holding Mai in the other. The tot had refused to leave her papa, wailing if anyone tried to take her. The CEO couldn’t help but feel bad as they watched Mai begin to fuss and cry, causing Mango to stop eating to tend to her. Victim’s legs suddenly moved on their own, taking them to Mango’s bedside.

“Fussing again?” Victim hummed as they stood next to the bed, hands folded behind their back.

“Yeah. Don’t worry, this is normal.” Mango nonchalantly responded, bouncing the girl while patting her back. Victim hummed as they watched.

“Allow me to take her off your hands for the moment.” Victim suddenly said. Mango chuckled a bit, causing Vic to tilt their head with a bit of shock and confusion. “Did I say something funny?”

“No um,” Mango cleared his throat. “Pivot tried to take her earlier. So I don't think she’ll be all too fond of being taken at all.”

“Well, i am her sire. So i have a higher chance of success.” Victim mentioned. Mango hummed at the statement.

“You have a point. But Mai hasn't interacted with you all that much either.” The bedridden technician mentioned. Victim hummed, nodding their head slightly.

“Though that is true, it does not hurt to try. I am sure you would like to eat your lunch before it gets cold, correct?” Mango mulled over Victim’s words before sighing.

“Alright alright. You can try.” Mango said as he adjusted Mai, making it easier for her sire to pick her up without issue. Victim carefully reached out, gently grabbing the one year old under her arms and lifting her from her carrier��s hold. Mai fussed a bit, but relaxed before too long.

“You are ok princess. Your sire has you now.” Victim said as they held Mai. Mai fussed a bit but eventually relaxed, Mango’s body physically relaxed as he let out a relieved sigh.

“Thank creators.” He breathily chuckled. Victim couldn't help but lightly laugh with Mango.

“See? I told you she would be fine.”

“Maybe I should hand her off to you more often.” Mango snorted, giving Victim an odd look. Whatever that look was, it made Vic’s chest feel tight. Like there was a large cat sitting on it. They could also feel their face begin to feel hot.

“Baba?” Victim looked down at the tot in their arms. She looked back up at them with large curious eyes. Her tiny hands suddenly cupping his face. She smiled and giggled, tapping his flushed cheeks. Victim smiled fondly as Mai nuzzled them.

“Ah, thank you princess.” Victim chuckled. Mai squealed a little more as Vic cooed her.

“You wanna take her for a bit?” Mango suddenly said. Victim paused and looked over at Mango once again.

“Pardon?” Victim asked.

“I'm asking if you want to take her for a bit.” Mango repeated. “I haven't been getting much sleep lately and Mai has refused to be with anyone else… Well, until now I guess.”

“I… I have never… taken care of a child on my own before.” Victim slowly admitted. Mango hummed at Victim’s answer.

“Well that’s not good. You're gonna have to learn how to take care of kids now that you're a dad and all.” Mango hummed. “I could teach you if you’d like.”

Victim could fight the smile on their face as they sat on the bed mear Mango.

“So, where do we begin?”

^^^^^^^^^^

The hollowhead could feel their cheeks getting hot as they remembered those days they got to spend with Mango one on one. They reflected on everything from the day they met mango to now. Victim had never thought that this would ever happen. They didn't think it was possible for them to make a connection with another stick. As the hollowhead thought about everything he felt about Mango, he realized that these feelings also translated over to his right hand man, Smith.

The agent had been working for Victim for as long as they could remember. He always completed his tasks or missions, and sometimes kept Victim company. He also seemed to be able to read Victim’s mind. Able to anticipate what Victim needed or was going to say. It was like Smith had looked into their soul and knew everything about them. That was part of the reason Victim decided to tell Smith about their past. They trusted the agent with their life. And at the time, he was the only one. But now Mango’s in the picture. Victim wondered if Mango would reach the same status as Agent Smith.

 As Victim further contemplated their relationships with his head Agent and Head technician, they couldn't help but wonder; “Is this what real friendship was like?” The CEO quickly turned to their monitor, fingers gliding skillfully across the keyboard as they looked up; “How do I know if I am friends with someone?” Victim carefully yet swiftly scanned the page, looking over every bit of information it had to offer to them. The more they read, they began to feel a flutter in their chest. Friendship. They have friends! Not to mention a daughter. The thought of companions made Vic smile. They weren’t going to be as alone as they thought they’d be.

A sudden knock at the door caught Victim’s attention, pulling them from their thoughts. Vic quickly composed themself before calling out to the person on the other side of the door.

“Enter.” They said in their usual monotone voice. The door slowly swung open, revealing the head agent.

“We have returned sir.” He said, approaching the desk. Victim nodded.

“And what do you have to report? Has the Chosen one been captured?” Victim inquired, chin resting on the back of his hands.

“Unfortunately not sir. He got away… again.” Smith growled. Victim sighed as well.

“It seems the hunt is still on then.” Victim sighed as they leaned back in their chai. The search on their monitor then caught their attention. Their eyes flicked over to The agent, who stood searching the room with his eyes.

“Are you looking for Mai?” Victim suddenly asked. Smith seemed to jump as Victim asked. His pale face suddenly turned a shade of red as he turned his head away.

“A bit.” He admitted. “I expected her to be here but she isn't. Did Mango take her back?”

“Yes, he did. She was fussy so Mango took her to nap.” Victim said, referring to the side room. “I do not know if Mango is napping with her, but he has not emerged from the room since taking the little princess.”

“Duly noted. I’ll check on them.” The agent said as he walked toward the door.

“Agent.” Smith paused and turned back to Victim.

“Yes sir?” Victim hesitated as he looked back at the screen. Taking a breath, Victim spoke.

“Would you… Consider us to be friends?” Victim asked, trying to stay casual. Smith arched his brow and walked back to Victim.

“I would.” He says simply. Victim hummed as Smith then stood next to the desk. “Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering.” Victim said as they quickly closed out of the tab before the agent saw it. “Now, what about me and Mango? Do you think he is my friend?”

“Allow me to answer your question with one of my own. Would you consider Mango to be your friend?” Smith asked. Victim paused as they processed the agent’s question.

“Yes.” Victim said. “I think… I think Mango is a very good friend. He is very welcoming, despite everything I have done to him. Not to mention that he took time out of this day to teach me how to take care of our daughter. It is admirable how kind and forgiving he is. His thoughtfulness makes my soul feel light and warm. That must mean he is a very good friend. I am glad he is my friend.”

Victim looked back up at Smith who simply gave them a blank stare. Victim furrowed his brow as this was an expression he had never seen on Smith’s face before.

“Agent? Are you alright?” Victim said, reaching out to touch him. But he took a step back.

“I’m fine.” Smith said, clearing his throat. “Um, good to know you think Mango is such a good, good friend.”

Victim’s brow furrowed more as Smith turned and swiftly walked over to the side room.

“I’m going to go check on Mango.” Smith said before Vic could speak. Soo, the agent had disappeared into the room. Victim stared at the door for a moment longer before sighing.

“He must be exhausted from the hunt. I will have to give him a break.”

Chapter 13-(Chapter 14)-Chapter 15