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minyoongisnewthing · 2 months ago

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Han river lullaby chapter six | myg

Chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five

Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader

Genre: angst, fluff, exs to lovers, eventual smut, idol!au, co parents, second chance romance.

Chapter warnings: Child injury (non graphic), parental guilt, anxiety/panic and mild swearing. Happy ending to the chapter

Word count: 7.1k approximately

Authors notes: this one also got a bit away from me in turns of word vomit, I hope you all enjoy the little bit of chaos we get in the form of uncle Hobi. As always let me know thoughts and anything i may have missed as a trigger warning in the comments thank you!

The weekend came, and like clockwork, you dropped Han off at Yoongi’s. It had become routine now—bittersweet in its familiarity. You kissed your son’s forehead, ruffled his hair, and watched the way he practically ran into Yoongi’s arms without a second thought. That part still got you. The way Han beamed when he saw his father. The way Yoongi looked at him like he was everything. Because he was.

You needed this break—not from Han, never from him—but from the whirlwind your life had become. Between balancing work, emotions you hadn’t fully processed, and the slow-burn reentry of Yoongi into your heart, your world felt like it was constantly spinning. You texted Hannah, your closest friend, suggesting a time and a quiet café you used to frequent before life became so complicated.

To your relief, she replied almost instantly. “Absolutely! I’ve missed you. I’ll be there.”

When you stepped into the cozy café later that afternoon, the scent of freshly baked pastries and espresso hit you like a warm blanket. Soft indie music played from overhead, and sunlight filtered through the windows, casting a golden glow over the polished wooden floors.

Hannah was already there, seated at a small table by the window, waving enthusiastically when she saw you. You grinned and made your way over, the familiarity of her presence instantly easing the tightness in your chest.

“Hey, stranger,” she said, pulling you into a brief hug before you both settled into your seats.

“No Han today?” She asked, her tone casual as she flipped through the menu.

You hesitated for a moment, carefully keeping your voice neutral. “No, um… he’s actually with his father today.”

her eyes widened, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Oh, wow. You didn’t tell me Han’s dad was back in the picture like that, just that you’d wanted to have them meet. This is fantastic!”

You nodded, taking a sip of your latte to stall for time. “Yeah… Well, we’re… we’re working on it, Working on us.” You paused, your tone growing serious. “You should see them, the way he loves Han, and Han loves him. That’s all that matters.”

Her expression softened, and she nodded in understanding. “I get it. I’m glad you’re both working on things, though.” She reached across the table to squeeze your hand. “I know it’s not easy, but it’s good that you’re doing it for Han.”

You offered her a small, grateful smile, your chest tightening with unspoken emotion.

The rest of your meal passed in easy conversation, laughter bubbling between bites of pastry and sips of coffee. You talked about her recent trip to Busan, your delight at finally getting some updated equipment at work, the latest show you’d binged while Han napped.

And then your phone buzzed.

You pulled it from your pocket, expecting a text. But your heart raced when you saw Yoongi’s name flash across the screen.

“Excuse me for a sec,” you said, already rising from your chair.

You answered as you stepped outside the café, heart thudding. “Hey.”

His voice was frantic, barely held together. “Y/N… fuck. It’s Han. We were playing tag in the kitchen, he slipped—he fell. He landed on his arm and it just doesn’t look right. He’s crying and I—shit, I should’ve been more careful, I—”

“Yoongi,” you interrupted gently, your voice steady despite the cold panic creeping up your spine. “Hey, listen to me. Breathe. Just breathe, okay?”

You could hear him trying, dragging in a shaky inhale, the sound of Han crying faintly in the background.

“Take him to ASAN,” you said quickly. “I’ll meet you there. It’s going to be okay, just keep breathing and get him there safe.”

“Okay,” Yoongi whispered. “I’m going now. I’ll see you soon.”

The call disconnected. You stood frozen for a beat, the weight of the moment sinking in like a stone in your stomach.

You rushed back inside, grabbing your things with shaking hands.

“Hannah, I’m so sorry—I have to go. Han’s hurt. He fell and hurt his arm.”

Her eyes widened, immediately concerned. “Oh my God—do you need me to come with you?”

You shook your head, already moving. “No, no—it’s okay. I just need to get to him.”

“Text me, please. Let me know if he's alright?”

You nodded once, then darted out the door.

The drive to the hospital was a blur of red lights and clenched fists. You gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles went white. Every second felt like an eternity. The thought of Han in pain, of Yoongi blaming himself, was unbearable. Your mind spun with worst-case scenarios—fractures, surgery, how scared Han must be.

You took deep breaths, blinking back tears as the hospital finally came into view. Your heart hammered in your chest, every instinct screaming at you to get inside, to get to your baby.

And Yoongi.

Because if you knew him at all—and you did—he’d be falling apart just as much.

When you finally reached the ER, the sterile brightness of the fluorescent lights hit your eyes as you rushed inside, your heart pounding so hard it echoed in your ears. You scanned the waiting area with frantic urgency, barely aware of the people around you until you caught sight of him—Yoongi—through the glass wall of one of the triage rooms.

His usually composed frame was in motion, pacing tight circles like a man trying to outwalk his own guilt. His black cap was pulled low, almost shielding his face, but you could still see the strain etched into it. His glasses sat crookedly on the bridge of his nose, and he looked like he hadn’t taken a full breath since calling you. His eyes—wild and glassy—lifted when he saw you approaching, and the smallest crack of relief broke across his features.

You didn’t stop walking until you reached the doorway, and as soon as your eyes landed on Han, everything else dropped away.

Your son was lying on the narrow hospital bed, his arm cradled in a pediatric sling, his face was pale, eyelids heavy with the weight of whatever medication they’d given him. He looked so small like that—fragile in a way that clawed at your heart.

“Oh, Han… baby boy…” your voice came out softer than you expected, a gentle whisper as you crossed the threshold and made your way to his bedside. You crouched down, brushing the hair from his forehead, your thumb feather-light against his temple.

Han blinked slowly, his pupils sluggish under the influence of pain relief. “It wasn’t Appa’s fault, eomma,” he mumbled, his words sticky and slurred. “I tripped.”

Your heart squeezed. Even drugged and half-asleep, he was trying to protect Yoongi.

“I know, baby,” you murmured, kissing his forehead. “I know. You were just playing, and accidents happen. You’re such a brave boy.”

You ran your fingers gently down his good arm, letting your touch remind him—and yourself—that he was here, he was safe, and he was going to be okay.

Behind you, you felt Yoongi’s presence shift. You stood slowly and turned to face him. He hadn’t moved from the spot he’d frozen in, like he didn’t know if he was allowed to come closer. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, his shoulders high with tension. His feline eyes darted to the floor as though afraid to meet yours, waiting for blame he clearly believed he deserved.

Without thinking, you stepped into him and wrapped your arms around his middle.

At first, he froze. Then, as if your touch cracked something open, his body sagged forward, his arms snapping around you like a lifeline. You felt him tremble, felt the tremor in his breath as it escaped shakily against your shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he rasped, voice low and raw. “It happened so fast. One second we were playing tag, and the next he was on the ground, screaming, holding his arm—and I panicked, Y/N. I panicked so hard. I didn’t know what to do except call you and get him here. But I—fuck, I should’ve been watching more closely.”

You held him tighter, your fingers pressing into the soft fabric of his hoodie. “Yoongi. Look at me.”

He did—reluctantly—and the anguish in his eyes nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

“He’s okay, you’re okay, we are okay,” you said firmly, gently but without room for doubt. “You did exactly what a good parent does. You got him help. He’s here, and he’s getting care. That scream you’re beating yourself up over? That was fear, not blame. He still loves you. And so do I—for being the kind of father who panics because he cares so damn much.”

Something in Yoongi’s expression softened, his eyes blinking quickly like he couldn’t quite believe you weren’t yelling, weren’t turning away, weren’t cussing him out. He nodded faintly, like he was still trying to make himself believe it.

Han stirred behind you, his voice a sleepy slur. “Eomma… I’m sleepy.”

You turned and moved quickly to the bed, brushing your fingers through his hair again. “You can sleep, my love. We’re both right here.”

His lips parted in a soft sigh, and his body relaxed against the bed. Yoongi joined you at the bedside, hovering but not crowding. You reached out and took his hand, anchoring him again.

“Let’s sit,” you said, nodding toward the chairs. “Doctor will be back soon.”

You tugged gently until he followed you to the seat beside the bed. Even seated, his knee bounced with anxious energy, his thumb running circles into his palm. You reached over, taking his hand again, and laced your fingers through his.

“Hey, did I ever tell you the story of when Han got a really nasty stomach bug from preschool?” you asked, hoping to shift the mood, knowing that Yoongi needed a distraction.

He shook his head, eyes still flickering over to Han. “No, I don’t think you ever did.”

“Well, let me tell you,” you started, leaning back in the chair and settling in. “It was so bad, Yoon. The kid went through three pairs of undies a day minimum, his little face was so pale. And to top it all off, he projectile-vomited down my shirt. Right down my front, at least twice.”

You felt Yoongi’s body stiffen at first, before it shook with quiet laughter. The tension easing, just slightly, as you continued. “I kid you not, I’m talking some Exorcist type shit here. Right down my shirt, and the poor thing—Han was so, so sick. It was coming hard out of both ends, not a pretty picture I know. I considered just living in the shower with him for a few days, But you know what?”

Yoongi looked at you, his eyes soft with amusement, but full of that underlying worry. “What?”

“He healed,” you said, voice steady with the weight of your words. “He got better, just like he will now. Our bodies, especially kids, are more resilient than we give them credit for.”

You saw Yoongi’s shoulders relax as he listened, and he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. There was still fear in his eyes, but a flicker of hope, of reassurance, began to take root. You squeezed his hand gently, your thumb brushing the back of his palm.

Yoongi looked at you again, this time holding your gaze longer, something tender flickering in his eyes. “Advice like that you, some kind of doctor or something?”

You smiled. “Something like that. But mostly, right now I’m just a mum who’s seen too much barf.”

A soft rustle from the bed made you both turn.

Han, who had been fighting sleep, mumbled groggily from his position in the bed, his little voice cracking as he blinked his heavy eyes open. “You know she is, Appa,” he mumbled, still half-asleep. His words were thick with drowsiness, and you couldn’t help but smile as he slowly curled in on himself, snuggling deeper into the blanket.

You reached out, brushing your hand through his soft hair. “Sleep, baby boy,” you murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. “Me and Appa will be here when you wake up.”

The room fell into a peaceful silence again, save for the soft beeping of the monitors and Han’s steady, slow breaths all mixing with the bustle of the hospital halls. You leaned back in your chair, feeling the quiet settle over you both, knowing Yoongi needed this moment to just breathe and be present with Han.

The soft knock at the door broke the quiet like a ripple across still water. You looked up, your hand still wrapped around Yoongi’s, as the doctor stepped in with a clipboard in one hand and a kind expression softening the professional lines of his face.

“Hello,” he greeted gently, voice low and warm like he was trying not to disturb the stillness of the room. His gaze shifted immediately to Han, lying pale in the hospital bed, the rhythmic beep of the monitor the only sign that time hadn’t stopped altogether. He moved toward the bed and leaned in, his brows furrowing with practiced focus as he scanned the machines and gently examined Han’s arm.

“How’s he doing?”

You offered a small smile, but your voice was even and measured, like you were holding onto your composure by the thinnest thread. “He’s resting. They gave him a low dose of morphine, judging by his chart, so he’s pretty out of it.”

The doctor nodded, carefully lifting the blanket back to inspect the temporary splint cradling Han’s arm. His movements were slow, deliberate, respectful—as if the weight of the moment wasn’t lost on him. Then he looked up, and the shift in his expression was subtle but unmistakable: a gentle seriousness, the kind that told you the news was coming, and it wasn’t the kind you ever wanted to hear.

“I’m afraid the X-rays confirm it’s a break,” he said gently, voice like silk over stone. “A clean one, thankfully—no fragmentation or damage to the growth plate. It’ll heal well with time. We’ll get a cast on him shortly. He’ll need to wear it for about six to eight weeks, and we’ll want to schedule a follow-up in a few days to monitor swelling and placement. But there’s no reason to expect any lasting complications.”

The words were meant to reassure, but you saw the way Yoongi crumbled beside you, piece by piece. His face fell like a shadow washing over him. His jaw clenched tight, the tendons in his neck taut like strings under too much pressure. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at Han—small, fragile, unmoving—and you felt his grip tighten around your fingers.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “A broken arm…” He swallowed, his throat working hard. “God. I never should’ve let him run like that. I should’ve been watching him better. I should’ve caught him.”

You turned toward him, no hesitation in the way you brought your free hand up to rest on his cheek, forcing him to look at you.

“Yoongi,” you said softly but with firm conviction. “It was an accident. A split second. You didn’t do anything wrong. You didn’t fail him, you hear me.”

His eyes searched yours like he was trying to find a truth he couldn’t quite believe himself, and for a moment, he looked so lost it broke something in your chest. But before he could respond, a soft sound came from the bed—a small, sleepy murmur from Han as he shifted beneath the blanket, brows twitching in dreamlike confusion. His little body stayed limp from the sedation, but the sight alone was grounding.

The doctor gave Han’s arm one last check and offered you both a smile, warmer this time. “We’ll have the cast on soon. He can go home later today. Just monitor him closely for any unusual symptoms—fever, vomiting, increased pain. You know the drill, Y/N.”

You nodded. “Thank you.”

As the doctor stepped out, the door eased shut behind him with a click that felt far too final. Silence settled in again, thick and full of everything unsaid. Yoongi slowly sank into the chair beside Han’s bed, his elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward, staring at Han like he could memorize him, preserve him exactly like this—safe, breathing, here.

His hand trembled as he reached out, brushing a dark lock of hair from Han’s forehead with delicate fingers. He lingered there, his breath shuddering in and out of his lungs. Then, in a voice so raw it barely held together:

“I just wanted to be a good father.”

You knelt beside him, sliding your hands around one of his, grounding him with the warmth of your touch.

“You are,” you said, steady and certain. “You love him. You protect him. You were there when it mattered. That’s what makes you a good father, Yoongi. Not perfection. Love.”

He stared at you, vulnerability etched into every line of his face, and for a moment, the mask he so often wore slipped entirely away. And then he pulled you into him—arms wrapping around your shoulders, his body curling toward yours like he was seeking shelter. You melted into his embrace, anchoring him with your weight, with your presence, with every quiet beat of your heart saying I’m here. I’ve got you.

The nurse came in soon after, gently waking Han and wrapping his arm in a bright blue cast at his sleepy request. Han’s dazed, slurred voice cracked the tension like a blessing, and you couldn’t help the watery chuckle that escaped you.

“Blue, huh?” you whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Good choice, baby. It’s strong. Just like you.”

Han smiled, woozy but proud, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks. Even in pain, even groggy, he was still your little light.

Once the discharge papers were signed and the car seat secured, you carried Han carefully through the hospital’s dim hallway, Yoongi never more than a breath away. He held the door, adjusted the blanket on Han’s lap, buckled him in as gently as if he were made of porcelain. And the entire drive home, he followed you close—his car steady in your rearview mirror, a silent guardian even in his own storm.

At home, you set Han up on the couch, cushioning him with pillows and draping a familiar blanket over his small frame. He barely stirred. The sedatives still tugged him under, but his breathing was steady, peaceful.

Yoongi entered quietly behind you, slipping off his shoes and padding into the living room like he didn’t want to disturb anything, not even the air. He knelt beside the couch, hands reaching out as if asking permission from the universe to touch his son. Then, with a whisper-soft motion, he brushed Han’s bangs aside, his thumb trailing over the curve of his cheek.

“I’m so sorry, Han baby,” Yoongi choked out, voice breaking in the middle. “Appa’s so, so sorry…”

Han’s lashes fluttered. His lips parted as he mumbled, barely above a breath, “I still love you, Appa… was ‘ccident…”

The broken, choked sound Yoongi made was half-sob, half-laugh. He caught Han’s tiny fingers in his own, bowing his head until his forehead rested against the back of Han’s hand. You could see the shudder in his shoulders, the way he clung to the only truth that mattered—Han’s love was still there. Undimmed. Unshaken.

You moved closer, resting a hand on Yoongi’s shoulder, grounding him once again.

“He doesn’t blame you,” you whispered. “You shouldn’t either.”

He nodded slowly, not trusting himself to speak. Only when you gently coaxed him to his feet did he follow you, his steps reluctant, gaze flicking back to Han every few seconds like he needed to make sure he was still breathing.

You sat him at the dining table and poured him a glass of water. He gripped it but didn’t drink, instead leaning his head back against the wall, his fingers locked tight around the cup.

“I really thought I failed him today,” he murmured, eyes distant. “That scream—I’ll never forget that sound, I never want to hear him like that again. It felt like my heart stopped. All I could think was, I let him get hurt.”

You sat down beside him, your shoulder brushing his. Without a word, you leaned your head against him, letting the silence fill in the cracks with something soft and real.

“You didn’t” you said firmly. “You were scared because you love him. And he knows that. He’s not going to remember the fall. He’s going to remember waking up and seeing you there. Holding his hand. Carrying him home.”

Yoongi exhaled slowly, like he was trying to let go of something he wasn’t quite ready to release.

“If you want you can stay the night,” you said quietly. “I know you won’t want to leave him.”

His gaze met yours, soft and weary but grateful. “Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “If that’s okay… I’d really like that.”

Later that night, after everything had settled into the quiet rhythm of sleep, you checked on them one last time. You paused in the doorway, heart catching at the sight before you.

Yoongi lay curled on Han’s bed, his long frame tucked in awkwardly but protectively around Han’s smaller body. One of his arms was draped gently across Han’s waist, while Han’s good hand fisted into the fabric of Yoongi’s shirt. They were both snoring—Han soft and high-pitched, Yoongi deep and rumbling, a mismatched lullaby of exhaustion and peace.

You covered your mouth to stifle a laugh, warmth blooming in your chest.

“Snores just like me, huh?” you whispered, smiling to yourself. “Liar.”

You pulled the door partway shut, leaving it just open enough to hear them if they stirred.

As you padded softly back to your room, you carried the weight of the day with you—but it was different now. The fear had ebbed, and in its place, there was love. So much love it felt like it might burst from your chest.

Han would heal. Yoongi would forgive himself, even if it took time. And in this little home, on this long, hard day, you had all held onto each other. And that—that—was what mattered most.

Two weeks into wearing his cast, Han had officially had enough. And he wasn’t afraid to let you—or anyone else for that matter—know about it.

His little pale face scrunched up in frustration, brows furrowed as he whined, his untamed hair flopping into his eyes. He wriggled in his car seat, kicking his legs in irritation, trying desperately to reach an itch he simply couldn’t get to.

“Eomma! It’s itchy!” he cried, his voice full of dramatic despair.

You sighed, sparing him a sympathetic glance as you maneuvered through the morning traffic.

“I know, baby, I know,” you cooed, reaching over to rub his good hand reassuringly. “But remember that means it’s healing. Just think about all the fun you’re going to have with Appa this weekend! And Uncle Hobi will be there today too! You guys are going to do so many fun things together.”

Han stilled at that, his pout still firmly in place but his little mind clearly weighing with the promise of excitement. Han’s head tilted slightly. You could practically hear the gears in his little brain turning. Uncle Hobi usually meant snacks, dancing. And chaos.

Eventually, you pulled into Yoongi’s apartment complex, parking in your usual spot. Grabbing Han’s weekend bag, you helped him out of his seat, taking his good hand in yours as you walked to the elevator.

As soon as the doors slid open on Yoongi’s floor, the sound of a familiar voice greeted you.

“There’s my favorite nephew!”

Before Han could even react, Hoseok scooped him up, twirling him in the air with ease, making the toddler burst into delighted giggles.

“Uncle Hoba!” Han shrieked between fits of laughter, clinging to Hoseok’s shoulders.

“How’s my little champ?” Hobi asked, settling Han onto his hip.

Han’s face scrunched up again, this time full of grievance. With a sigh, he launched into a passionate retelling of his horrible morning—the itchiness of his cast, the tragic betrayal of his own legs that led to his fall in the kitchen, and the pure injustice of having to wear the itchy cast for four more weeks.

Over the top of Han’s head, Hobi caught your gaze, his eyes twinkling with amusement. He grinned wide, mouthing, “Dramatic like his Appa.”

You bit back a laugh, nodding in agreement as you mouthed back, “trust me, You have no idea.”

Your eyes flickered to Yoongi then, and for a second, you faltered. He was dressed casually—loose black shorts and a worn-out hoodie, his black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, his bare face soft and relaxed in the warm light of his apartment. It wasn’t a look you saw often, but it suited him.

Shaking the thought away, you cleared your throat. “Han’s been having a bit of an off morning, the cast is really bugging him.” you told Yoongi, watching as his sharp eyes softened slightly when they landed on his son.

Yoongi nodded, stepping forward to brush a gentle hand over Han’s head. “That so?”

“Uh-huh,” Han nodded, laying his head against Hobi’s shoulder.

Yoongi smirked. “Well, guess I’ll just have to keep you too busy to think about it, huh?”

That seemed to do the trick. Han perked up instantly, nodding enthusiastically as he wiggled out of Hobi’s arms to stand on his own.

Satisfied that he was in good hands, you knelt in front of Han, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “Be good for Appa, okay?, I’ll see you Monday to take you to school”

“I will!” he promised eagerly, already bouncing on his feet, excitement replacing his earlier frustrations.

With one last lingering look at Yoongi, you said your goodbyes, heading out leaving Han with Yoongi for the weekend.

By the time Monday rolled around, you were already running a bit late, juggling your coffee in one hand and Han’s backpack in the other as you arrived at Yoongi’s apartment to pick him up for preschool.

Han practically bounced out the door, his tiny sneakers slapping against the pavement as he raced toward you, arms stretched wide. His little face was glowing with excitement, cheeks flushed pink from the chilly air and the endless energy only a three-year-old could summon.

“Eomma! Eomma! Appa took me to the arcade!” he cried as you knelt to scoop him into your arms. “And Uncle Hobi got me the biggest ice cream ever! It was this big!” He stretched his arms as wide as they could go for emphasis. “And we played music, and—and I beat Appa at the claw machine! Twice!”

You laughed softly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear as you buckled him into his car seat, nodding along as he rambled, his words tumbling over each other in his excitement. His little hands waved animatedly as he tried to cram every detail of his thrilling weekend into the short ride to preschool.

It wasn’t until you pulled into the preschool parking lot and unbuckled him, lifting him out of his seat, that you noticed something… different.

Your eyes narrowed, suspicion prickling at the back of your mind.

“Han… where did you get this jacket?”

Han just beamed up at you, pure innocence radiating from his face, his gummy grin—so reminiscent of his father’s—spreading wide across his cheeks.

He tugged at the soft fabric proudly, leaning forward a little so you could admire it properly.

It was new.

And not just any new—it was Louis Vuitton new.

The unmistakable monogram was stitched subtly but unmistakably into the soft, buttery fabric. Even someone with no eye for fashion would’ve recognized it. Luxury practically dripped off the jacket.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, pinching the bridge of your nose, a culprit coming to mind instantly.

Han, oblivious to your inner turmoil, cheerfully kissed your cheek and dashed inside toward his teacher, shouting over his shoulder, “Love you, Eomma!!” before disappearing into the colorful chaos of the preschool.

You stood there for a moment longer, staring after him with a mixture of helpless affection and pure, unfiltered exasperation.

Sighing heavily, you made your way back to the car, already pulling out your phone.

Hoseok picked up on the third ring, and the second you heard his voice—already thick with barely contained laughter—you knew he was guilty.

“Y/N! What a surprise!” he said, so delightedly that you nearly saw red.

“JUNG HOSEOK.” You took a steadying breath, gripping the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles turned white.

“MY THREE-YEAR-OLD TODDLER DOES NOT NEED TO BE WEARING LOUIS VUITTON TO PRESCHOOL. WHAT WERE YOU THINKING? DO YOU KNOW HE’S GOING TO COME HOME ABSOLUTELY COVERED IN GLITTER, GLUE AND PAINT?!”

There was a beat of silence—and then Hoseok completely lost it.

His laughter burst through the phone line, the kind of laughter that shook his whole body, loud and unapologetic.

“Hobi, I’m serious, he was rolling in mud last week!, MUD!” You continued

“Oh, come on!” he gasped between wheezes. “What’s the point of being a fun rich uncle if I can’t spoil my favorite little guy a tiny bit?”

“A tiny bit?!” you spluttered. “Hobi, that jacket costs more than my car insurance! Monthly!”

Still laughing, Hoseok tried—and failed—to defend himself.

“He was just so brave, Y/N! After everything with his arm… how could I not get him a little something special? He deserves to feel like a million bucks! I even let him pick the color!”

You groaned into your hand, heart melting even as your head throbbed. It was impossible to stay mad when it was clear how much Hoseok adored Han—and, honestly, Han had been through a lot lately.

“You’re lucky he’s adorable, and absolutely loves it” you muttered under your breath.

“I am lucky!” Hoseok agreed cheerfully. “He’s the best!”

Rolling your eyes, you ended the call with a grumbled, “You’re impossible,” even as a reluctant smile tugged at your lips.

Later that afternoon, after picking up Han—now wearing his designer jacket and proudly sporting dried yellow paint and glitter on both sleeves—you couldn’t resist.

You snapped a photo: Han, fast asleep in his car seat, arms slack at his sides, his little blue cast peeking out from under the ridiculously expensive jacket, face smudged with remnants of paint and joy.

You sent the photo to Yoongi with a simple caption:

Y/N: please tell that idiot best friend of yours i said i told you so!!!

Less than a minute later, Yoongi replied with a photo of his own photo of Hobi, mid-laugh, shoulders shaking, the caption simply reading:

Yoongi: Hobi said and I quote “He’s totally worth it though, right?”

And looking at Han’s peaceful, paint-smeared face and clothes in the rearview mirror, you couldn’t really argue.

He really was.

The rest of Han’s time in his cast passed in a flurry of follow-ups, checkups, and appointments, the calendar crammed with reminders written in bright marker and circled twice. Through it all, Yoongi was there—quietly present, making time between meetings and studio sessions, showing up with coffee and snacks, always crouching down beside Han’s tiny chair like he had nowhere else more important to be.

It hadn’t gone unnoticed.

The morning of Han’s final appointment arrived with an air of cautious excitement. His healing had been right on track—no complications, no setbacks—and you could tell your little boy was buzzing with energy at the idea of finally saying goodbye to his cast.

“You ready to finally get this thing off, buddy?” Yoongi asked as the three of you crossed the hospital parking lot. Han gripped his father’s hand, his little legs working hard to match Yoongi’s stride, the oversized hoodie he wore making him look even tinier.

Han nodded with vigor, his curls bouncing. “So ready.”

Yoongi laughed, squeezing his son’s hand. “Just a little longer.”

Inside the orthopedics wing, the pediatric room looked like something out of a picture book—bright blue walls adorned with cheerful cartoon sea creatures, a treasure chest full of stickers, and a small TV looping a silent episode of Sesame Street. Han’s eyes wandered everywhere, but his grip on Yoongi’s hand stayed firm.

The nurse—an efficient, overly friendly man with too much cologne and a slightly patronizing tone—walked you both through the removal and aftercare process. You stood on one side of Han, Yoongi on the other, and nodded politely as the nurse explained things you already knew by heart. It wasn’t your first rodeo. You worked here, after all.

If you hadn’t been paying attention, you might have missed it.

But you were paying attention.

The subtle way Yoongi’s shoulder shifted closer to yours when the nurse’s hand brushed just a bit too close. The low, clipped tone Yoongi used when asking a follow-up question that didn’t actually need asking. And the quick scowl he hid every time the nurse addressed you instead of him.

It hit you then.

He was jealous.

It shouldn’t have warmed your heart the way it did—but it did. The quiet, possessive edge. The casual but very intentional closeness. The way his hand rested lightly on the small of your back when you leaned over to soothe Han.

You tucked that little revelation into your pocket, deciding to call him out on it later.

Once Han’s cast was finally sawed off—his arm free at last and a little stiff—he was beaming with pride. He flexed it dramatically for Yoongi, who cheered and raised his arms for a high-five that made Han giggle so hard he snorted.

On the way back through the lobby, Han stopped at the sticker bin and carefully chose one shaped like a rocket ship.

“This one’s for Appa,” he declared.

Yoongi’s face softened as he crouched to let Han stick it proudly on his hoodie. “Thanks, bud. I’m gonna wear this to the studio.”

Out in the hospital parking lot, the sun peeked through the gray clouds, and a light breeze tugged at the hem of your coat as you helped Han into his car seat. Yoongi clipped the buckles, smoothing Han’s hair down before gently shutting the door.

You turned to him with a single raised eyebrow.

“What?” he asked, not quite playing innocent, but close enough to try.

You leaned casually against the car, arms crossed. “Not gonna talk about that smooth move in there, Min?”

Yoongi stiffened—just a little—but the way his ears turned pink gave him away.

“Smooth move?” he repeated, pretending not to know what you meant.

You tilted your head. “Uh-huh. All that sudden hovering. The oh-so-subtle glare when he called me ‘mom’ like I didn’t have a medical degree. And that very deep voice you pulled out of nowhere when you asked him about ��compression and swelling.’” You smirked. “Anything you wanna share?”

His mouth twitched, caught. But instead of denying it, he dropped into a lazy, slightly sheepish shrug.

“It was annoying,” he admitted. “Listening to him talk down to you like that. You’re literally a doctor here. You don’t need to be told how to—” he slipped into a mocking impression of the nurse, “‘gently bathe the area and watch for signs of irritation.’”

You laughed, the sound bubbling out of you before you could stop it. He grumbled under his breath, cheeks now fully pink.

You reached up, brushing your fingers briefly across his chest—just where the rocket ship sticker sat. “You were jealous, Min?”

Yoongi glanced away, but not before you caught the flicker of a smile. “Maybe.”

“Mm.” You nodded, satisfied. “We’ll circle back to that later.”

“I’m sure we will.”

And as you both got into the car, Han was already babbling excitedly in the backseat about baths and claw machines and what sticker he’d get next time, you couldn’t help the way your smile lingered.

Maybe everything wasn’t quite fixed yet.

But some things—like this—felt like they were healing just fine.

Once home, the apartment had settled into that familiar hush that only came after a long morning out—Han’s toys were scattered across your living room floor, soft music played low from the kitchen speaker, and the smell of peanut butter hung gently in the air as you stood at the counter making Han’s lunch.

Yoongi leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, still in his jacket he was watching you—quietly, thoughtfully—his fingers drumming a slow rhythm against his elbow.

Then he said it.

“I told my eomma and appa about Han.”

You paused, your hand stalling mid-swipe across the bread. You looked up slowly.

“I told them a while ago, actually,” he added, voice casual. But the way his eyes searched yours—waiting, measuring—told you this wasn’t a small confession.

Something in your chest fluttered.

It wasn’t a surprise, not really. Of course Yoongi would eventually tell them. Of course they’d want to know. But hearing the words aloud? Feeling the weight of them? That was something else entirely.

You turned your attention back to the sandwich, steadying your hand as you set the knife down.

“They… want to meet him,” Yoongi said, voice softer now.

You took a breath. “That makes sense.” You kept your tone even, trying not to show the nervous shift in your chest. “If you want to take him to see them, that’s fine.”

But then Yoongi’s expression flickered—just for a moment—and the corner of his mouth twitched upward with something that looked suspiciously like amusement. You narrowed your eyes. You knew that look.

“What?” you asked slowly, suspicious.

“She wants Han and you to come with me for a visit,” he said, trying for nonchalance and failing spectacularly.

Your mouth dropped open just as you popped a blueberry into it, and you immediately choked.

Coughing, you reached blindly for your water. “No—no way,” you gasped. “Yoongi. You can absolutely take Han. That’s fine. But me? Why would your mum want me there?”

Yoongi shrugged one shoulder, his eyes dancing with mischief. “I may have also mentioned that we’re… working things out.”

You stared at him, utterly betrayed. “Yoongi!”

He had the decency to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “She asked if I was happy,” he said simply. “And I told her the truth, that I am.”

you groaned, turning away and pressing your hands to your face. “She’s going to hate me.”

“She’s not going to hate you.”

“She might,” you said through your hands. “She probably thinks I kept Han from her. From you. From all of you. She’d be right to be upset. Honestly, I wouldn’t even blame her.”

When you lowered your hands, Yoongi had stepped closer. His fingers brushed lightly against your hip, grounding you in that steady, quiet way of his.

“She’s not mad, Y/N,” he said gently. “She understands. She said… she said we were young. That people make hard decisions when they’re trying to protect the people they love. And that she wants to see you again.”

Your throat tightened, and you swallowed hard against the lump forming there. You weren’t sure you believed it. You weren’t sure you could. But the fact that Yoongi wasn’t standing here blaming you—that he was reassuring you, defending you, choosing you—meant more than you could say.

Still, this wasn’t a small ask. This wasn’t some polite reunion.

This was family. This was standing in the house where you’d once laughed with Yoongi’s mother in the kitchen, where his father had teased you about stealing their son’s heart. This was walking back into a version of your past and facing it with open hands, not knowing how it would be received.

“Yoongi…” you exhaled, voice wavering just slightly. “Are you sure about this?”

He nodded without hesitation. “I am. But more importantly—do you think you can do this?” His voice was gentle. “I won’t make you. If it’s too much, I’ll just take Han, make it a boy’s trip. They’ll understand.”

You turned your gaze toward the living room. Han sat cross-legged on the rug, building a wonky tower out of mismatched blocks, his tongue poking out in concentration.

Could you do this?

Could you walk back into that space, into that history, and not flinch under the weight of everything?

Yoongi’s hand slid from your waist to your hand, his thumb brushing against your knuckles. “You won’t be alone,” he said, quiet but firm. “We’ll do this together.”

That was what finally made something crack inside your chest.

You nodded, the word soft but full of quiet resolve. “Okay,” you said. “I’ll go.”

Yoongi’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile but was full of warmth. “Good,” he said. “Because eomma’s already planning the menu. She actually asked if you’d still like her galbijjim.”

You let out a groan, smacking his arm lightly. “And you call Han a little hustler, you planned this.”

He laughed, catching your wrist before you could pull away. His thumb brushed against your pulse, lingering, grounding. “She’s going to be happy to see you again, Y/N,” he murmured. “Trust me.”

And even though doubt still curled at the edge of your heart, you found yourself wanting to.

That night, after Han had been tucked into bed with his stuffed tiger and a gentle forehead kiss, you sat beside him on the rug, your fingers weaving through his hair as you told him about the upcoming trip.

“We’re going to go on a little adventure,” you said softly. “We’ll drive for a while, and then… you’ll meet your grandparents. Appa’s eomma and appa.”

Han’s eyes went round. “Like your eomma?”

“Kind of, yeah,” you smiled. “They live in Daegu. We’ll eat lots of yummy food, and they’ll be so excited to meet you.”

He sat up, suddenly energized. “Will they have kimchi pancakes? I like the crunchy kind!”

“I bet they will.” You smoothed a curl off his forehead. “You’re going to charm them, you know that?”

Han puffed out his cheeks and nodded proudly.

Later, when Yoongi casually mentioned that he’d drive the two of you in his car—“It’ll be easier, less hassle, and Han likes the playlist I made”—you tried not to read too much into it.

But you did.

Because the idea of all three of you traveling together… like a real family… stirred something in your chest, something that felt like old times and warmth. And you found yourself wrapped up in Hans enthusiasm, starting to look forward to the trip.

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#Min Yoongi x reader #Min Yoongi x you #Min Yoongi x y/n #Suga x reader #Suga x you #Suga x y/n #Bts fanfic #Bts fanfiction #Han river lullaby #Min Yoongi angst #Min Yoongi fanfic #Min Yoongi fanfiction #Yoongi #Min Yoongi #bts fanfction #BTS fanfiction #bts fic

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marauder-misprint · 2 months ago

Note

Hello, i really love your works!

I personally am quite a fan of ernie macmillan.

Could you do a bit of angst between him and reader whous his wife but with a happy ending?

Where reader caught him being kissed by hannah so reader was heartbroken and thought he had an affair. When he told his parents and his friends what happened, they only told him to fix it. Reader who was heavily pregnant hid at her brother harry’s place. And a miserable ernie begged her to take him back and went on that he’s miserable without her. Reader said one chance and ernie was grateful that he kept peppering her with kisses

Hi! Thank you for this request ❤︎ I feel like Ernie is a very niche interest, but I am so here for it. 10/10 would write for again.

I don't read much pregnant! content and have never been pregnant so I'm sorry if parts are incorrect in that perspective.

Enjoy! ❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

Peace offering

Ernie Macmillan x Potter!Pregnant!reader

4.6k words

cw: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, y/n

In the years immediately after the Battle of Hogwarts, you got a flat in Diagon Alley and found work in a shop there. You wanted something small, something that could be described as plain, especially compared to what had been your life so far. Being the famous Harry Potter’s lesser known twin still meant you were roped into just about everything he was. Now, you just wanted to exist.

Diagon Alley was filled with familiar faces. Same old shopkeepers who’d been there for years and some people you went to school with. The latter included Ernie Macmillan. You weren’t close with him in school; you just ran in different circles. Now, he worked just a few shops over from you. When you first recognized him, you shared a polite nod of acknowledgement and went back to work. You thought that was that. You certainly didn’t expect Ernie to come into your shop a few days later on his break to ask what time you got off and if you’d want to get a drink with him.

You agreed to go and that was only the beginning. One drink turned into several as you caught up and started to actually get to know each other. One evening turned into hanging out after work more often, getting dinner and going on dates. Kisses turned into going back to each other’s flats. Dating turned into engaged which turned into married. Then, after some time, you were starting a family together.

You quit your job when you hit a point in your pregnancy where you couldn’t continue working. Between your half of the Potter fortune, Ernie’s Macmillan money and his job, you were doing alright.

Ernie had a routine that he did every morning, it was like clockwork. He’d get ready for work, but before he walked out the door, he would kiss your belly and then your lips. He told you he loved you and he’d see you later. You had no doubt in your heart that he loved you and that he was yours.

You woke up in a great mood with lots of energy. Some time after Ernie left for work you decided that you’d surprise him around lunchtime with a visit. You headed to Diagon Alley. You were approaching the shop he worked at, easily spotting him sweeping out front, and then you heard a girl’s voice.

“Ernie!”

A blonde girl ran up to him, pulled him into a hug and kissed him. It took you a second to recognize the girl: Hannah Abbott. You couldn’t recall if Ernie had a past with her that went beyond friendship. All you knew was that they were both in Hufflepuff back in the day, she hadn’t been invited to your wedding, and now she was kissing Ernie like it was the most natural thing. But, as if her kissing him wasn’t bad enough, you saw him kiss her back.

Your heart stopped. You couldn’t breathe. You could barely think, process the horrid scene unfolding in front of you. Your husband… was kissing someone else. And it didn’t seem like it was the first time.

It took all of your focus to apparate home. It was all you could think to do. You know you couldn’t stand another moment seeing his lips on someone else. You quickly threw together a bag and as quickly as you had arrived home, you were gone. You appeared in Godric’s Hollow, standing just outside of a cottage you knew all too well. You tried to steady yourself before knocking. You tried to remain calm as you waited.

You were expecting Ginny or maybe Teddy to answer the door. You didn’t expect Harry. No, he should’ve been at work; he was an auror after all. And you completely lost all composure when you saw your brother.

“Y/N? What’s wrong?”

You shook your head, suddenly unable to form words. Harry stepped out onto the porch and wrapped his arms around you. You were trembling as sobs shook through your body.

“Let’s go inside, yeah?” Harry whispered, scanning the neighborhood as if you were being watched.

You let Harry guide you into his house, and then he went back for your bag.

“Harry? Who is it?” Ginny called from somewhere inside the house.

“Y/N,” he yelled in response, getting you to the couch. Then in a softer voice directed at you, “You got to tell me what’s wrong.”

“Ernie.” It came out with one of your sobs.

Harry glanced back at the bag you brought with you.

“What’s wrong with Ernie?”

You shook your head again. How could you tell your brother that the father of your unborn child was having an affair?

Harry sat on the couch with you, rubbing a gentle hand over your back. He wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t have the whole picture – he barely had a singular piece of the puzzle. But he knew that you needed him to be there for you right now so he stayed put. Until Ginny appeared in the kitchen’s doorway.

“I’ll be right back,” Harry muttered to you before getting up to talk to his wife.

“Were we expecting her?” Ginny whispered.

He shook his head. “Something’s wrong, but all I got out of her is that it has to do with Ernie. She brought a bag… It can’t be good.”

“I’ll make some tea,” Ginny announced, retreating into the kitchen as Harry went back to you.

You were able to stop crying as you sipped on the warm tea. Harry regarded you carefully. You know how fragile you must look, if it’s anything compared to how you feel. The tears may have stopped, but your hands shook and you felt empty inside. It didn’t feel real. You kept hoping that any second you’d wake up and this would all be a horrible nightmare.

But time kept passing and you didn’t wake up.

Harry and Ginny made sure that one of them was sitting with you for the rest of the afternoon. There were times when their little James sat between you and his parent. Teddy even came into the living room for a little bit, before disappearing back to his room. Any other, Ginny would’ve teased you, saying that that was your future, but knowing that Ernie was connected to why you were so upset, she stayed quiet.

When Harry went to make dinner, you found the strength to tell Ginny. It was always different talking to her. Maybe it was the Weasley charm all her siblings seemed to have. She was just easier to talk to and you knew you could trust her with your life, just like Harry.

“He’s having an affair,” you breathed, leaning back against the couch cushions. It felt even worse saying it out loud.

Ginny’s eyes went wide and she leaned forward, placing a hand on your knee. “Ernie?”

You nodded. You could feel the tears beginning to build in your eyes, but you tried to blink them away. You didn’t want to become a sobbing mess again. Of course, you had good reason to be, but you hated crying in front of people, even if they were the ones you trusted the most.

“Oh, love,” Ginny whispered.

She wanted to know how you knew. That wasn’t something you’d make lightly. You’d have to be certain to say something like that, and with how wrecked you were, she could tell you were certain. Then you took a shaky breath.

“I saw it, Gin… He was… He…” You had to pause so you didn’t start crying again. Your throat felt like it was closing and your chest burned. It was horrible. “He kissed her.”

Ginny pressed her lips together, unsure if she should ask. But she did. “Who?”

“Hannah. From school.”

Ginny stared at you as the air in the room thickened. She had no worse. How do you comfort someone when they’ve told you something like that? Telling you that it didn’t sound like Ernie, your Ernie, might not be helpful, because Ginny didn’t see what you saw. Being a year younger than you and Harry, Ginny didn’t interact with Ernie and Hannah when at Hogwarts, but she would talk to Harry later. It didn’t feel right. The Ernie that Ginny knew was utterly devoted to you and ecstatic to be father.

You retired to the guest room shortly after dinner. You were drained, emotionally, mentally and physically. You just wanted to be alone for a little bit. Harry and Ginny cleaned up the kitchen in silence; Ginny was waiting until they settled on the couch to tell Harry what you told her.

Then the phone rang. Harry let it ring a few times when he saw the caller ID. Ernie.

“Hello,” Harry said firmly, looking at Ginny who crossed her arms over her chest.

“Harry!” Ernie’s voice came through the phone, loud enough for Ginny to hear too. “Not to alarm you, but have you heard from Y/N today? She wasn’t home when I got back from work. I thought she must’ve just stepped out for a bit, but she’s still not home and she’s always back by now and I’m getting worried.”

“Ernie. She’s here.” Harry’s voice was still firm. Even without knowing your story, he was protective of you and you said that Ernie was the problem.

“She is?” Ernie asked with a breath of relief. “Oh, thank Merlin. Everything alright?”

“Not too sure on that yet, mate.”

There was a brief moment of silence over the line; Ernie didn’t know what to say to that. His wife, you, weren’t okay?

“What do you-” he started to ask before Harry cut him off.

“Just don’t come by. We’re handling it.”

He hung up. Ginny, with a grim look on her face, walked up to Harry and put a hand on his shoulder.

“You should sit,” she said.

Harry didn’t like the sound of that. He thought he handled that call fairly well, being that you appeared at his house in tears with a bag of your things. He was well aware that he could’ve cursed Ernie out. He could’ve apparated to your home and dueled Ernie for whatever happened. Harry had lots of options and he thought he handled it maturely. But he listened to Ginny and took a seat at the dinner table.

“Y/N thinks Ernie’s having an affair.”

Harry’s face immediately heated up in rage. Maybe Ginny was right to have him sit. But then again, maybe he should’ve been more harsh with him on the phone.

“She says she saw him kissing Hannah. That’d be Abbott, right? In Hufflepuff with him?”

“Yeah,” Harry growled. “That bastard.”

“It… doesn’t feel right,” Ginny said, voicing her feelings from before. “He adores her and you know it. Remember when they told us they were expecting? I don’t see how Ernie could be cheating.”

Harry knew Ginny was right; she often was. But that didn’t help the rage building inside of him. Ernie married his sister and vowed to stay by you until death do you part, and you were very much still alive.

Back in your house, Ernie had trouble falling asleep. He stared at the ceiling, wallowing in his confusion. You weren’t okay and you didn’t go to him. You went to your brother. So was the problem with him? A knot formed in the pit of his stomach as realization hit him. Was there a chance you saw Hannah ambush him at work? If you had, you must not have seen him push Hannah off of him and harshly tell her that he is a happily married man. If you saw Hannah kiss him, you would’ve come to a horrible conclusion that Ernie didn’t want to linger on.

He dragged himself to work in the morning after not sleeping. He was filled to the brim with worry about you. And that only escalated when Harry showed up at his work.

“You’re a right git, Macmillan,” Harry snarled, walking up to where Ernie was standing behind the counter.

“Is Y/N okay?” was all Ernie could ask.

“Ginny’s taking care of her. Like you have any right to be asking that right now.”

“Harry, can we talk outside?” Ernie asked, glancing toward his manager who was watching them curiously. “I’m taking my break!”

Ernie walked outside with Harry following close behind.

“What the hell do you have to say?” Harry all but growled at his brother-in-law.

“Did… did she come here yesterday?”

“Yes.”

Ernie ran a hand through his hair, looking up to the sky. He would’ve loved for the earth to swallow him whole right then and there.

“Ah, the regret of a guilty man. You disgust me,” Harry said.

“Harry, let me explain!”

Then there was the sickening sound of flesh on flesh. Harry threw a punch, hitting Ernie square in the jaw and sending him to the ground.

“Potter! Stop!” he yelled, holding his face. “I didn’t kiss Hannah!”

Harry crouched down and grabbed Ernie’s shirt, pulling him to sit up. “What’s your story then?”

“I’m working, right? I hear my name so I turn. Next thing I know, Hannah’s hugging me and forcing herself on me. I didn’t kiss her. I shoved her off of me. Told her I’m happily married. Because I am. I love Y/N more than anything. Please, you have to believe me. If you believe me… then she might. I can’t lose her.”

Harry studied Ernie’s face, trying to decipher if the genuinity of his words was true.

“She’s really broken up ‘bout it,” Harry said as he let go of Ernie’s shirt and stood up. “You need to fix it. Then, count your fucking blessings.”

Harry turned to walk away before apparating back to the ministry. Ernie stared at where he had gone. His face hurt, but it was nothing compared to the ache in his heart. You did see Hannah kiss him, and you didn’t see him push her off. He meant every word he said to Harry and hoped that he would try to talk to you for him. Maybe all hope wasn’t lost.

Returning to work wasn’t great. Going home wasn’t good either. The house felt so empty and cold without you. You have this presence, a warm air that emanates from you, bringing life and color into the blandest of spaces. Ernie had told you he noticed it during school, but you were always surrounded by some sort of posse. If Harry was Gryffindor’s Golden Boy, you were Gryffindor’s Princess. Ernie even joked that it was that Harry had you for a sister, because when he wasn’t being particularly likable, you were there and people were drawn to you. He knew he was extremely lucky to get to marry you and he really didn’t want to think about losing you.

Ernie needed to take at least another day before he tried going to the Potters’ to see you. He needed to collect his thoughts and figure out how to grovel and apologize and explain in a way that convinced you he is as loyal to you as if he were a Gryffindor. The house was silent for most of the evening. Until the phone rang and Ernie nearly jumped out of his skin, and then his chair as he raced to answer it.

He frowned when he saw it was his parents and not you, but answered it all the same.

“Hello?”

“Ernest! How are you, dear?” his mother asked.

“‘M good.”

“Is Y/N around? I rang earlier, but no one answered.”

The ache in his heart stung worse. “She’s at her brother’s.”

“Having a spat?”

Of course his mother jumped to that.

“Something like that.” He couldn’t tell his mother that his lovely wife thought he was having an affair with an old schoolmate. No, that would feel like another nail in the coffin.

“Hmm. Make sure you fix it. Apologize, even if you don’t think you’re wrong. She’s a lovely girl.”

“I know, Mum. I’m just trying to find the words right now. I’ll fix it.”

“Well, when you do see her, be a dear and have her give me a ring.”

“Alright, Mum.”

“Love you, Ernest.”

“I love you too, Mum.”

He turned over the phone in his hand as silence fell upon the house again. Not even two days without you and it felt like color had drained from the world. Everything was in various shades of grey. Both his mother and Harry told him to fix it. He knew he had to, realizing that wasn’t the issue. The issue would be getting you to believe the truth: that Hannah had thrown herself at him and he wasn’t having any of it. Merlin, he had to convince you. He couldn’t lose you.

He stared at the phone in his hands before calling Justin. Maybe he’d have some advice that was more than ‘fix it.’

“Ernie, my man, what’s going on?” Justin asked, answering after a few rings.

“Did Hannah and I have a falling out I’m not aware of?”

There was some sound on the other end of the line, like Justin was moving away from whoever he was with.

“Hannah… Abbott? Haven’t heard from her since sixth year. Why?”

Right. Justin hadn’t gone to Hogwarts for his seventh year because it wasn’t safe for him.

“She jumped me the other day at work.”

There was a harsh laugh of disbelief from Justin. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I wish I was. I really wish I was.”

“Sounds like she’s a fan of you. Tell her you’ve got yourself a wife?”

“Yeah, I did. My problem is that Y/N saw Hannah kiss me.”

“Shit… Ernie, you’re fucked.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” he groaned. “How do I explain to the best thing to happen to me that Hannah came at me and it should’ve never happened in the first place?”

“Down a vial of Felix Felicis?”

“Right, because I have that in the cupboard. I need real advice, man. Harry decked me at work today. Told me to fix it. And then my mum called and told me the same thing.”

“You told your mum that Y/N thinks you’re cheating on her?”

“No! I’m not an idiot! She got the watered down version. Still. I was told to fix it. And I need help fixing it.”

“I mean, you’re apologizing to Gryffindor royalty…” Justin muttered through the phone. “You need to be kissing the ground she walks on.”

“I do that anyways!”

“Ernie. I’m thinking, alright.” Silence buzzed in Ernie’s ears until Justin spoke again. “Have you thought about a peace offering? Something that tells her that you're hers, you know? In addition to groveling at her feet and begging her to have you still.”

“A peace offering… I’ll think about it. Call me back if anything else comes to you?”

“Yeah, yeah. Good luck, mate. Hate to see you divorced or dead.”

The line clicked and Ernie was wholly alone again. Only now, he had a mission he would put all his energy into: finding something that would make him worthy of you again.

You didn’t mind being at Harry’s house. You love Ginny. You love your brother. You adore their little James and Teddy. Life in their house was getting increasingly hectic as the boys got older. It was good for a distraction from Ernie. But he kept creeping back into your mind and the hurt amplified every time. He was your best friend, your love, and he had betrayed your trust in the worst way.

There was a knock at the door as you sat with James on the couch, reading Babbity Rabbity to him. Harry motioned for you to stay seated as he got up to get the door. You couldn’t see who it was, but you knew. You knew the moment the door opened and Harry stiffened.

“Macmillan,” Harry said coldly.

Ernie knew not to expect a warm welcome. Even if Harry did believe him that Hannah had come at him and he pushed her off, Harry’s loyalty would be yours until he was in the grave.

“Harry.” Ernie’s voice made your heart clench in a way you couldn’t describe – some mix of pain and love. “Can I speak to Y/N?”

Harry gave Ernie a look that said if it was up to him, Harry would let him in, but it wasn’t up to Harry. It was up to you. If you didn’t want to see him, Harry would send Ernie away, telling him to give you more time.

Harry, using his arm to block the door, leaned back to look at you. “Do you feel up to it?”

You sighed. You weren’t sure if you did, but you needed to. No matter how much it pained, you needed to know why.

“Give us some privacy?” you asked.

Harry nodded, letting Ernie into the house. Harry collects James in his arms, also taking the book from you. “Come on, little man. Let’s go find your mum.” And then Harry disappeared upstairs.

If you weren’t pregnant, you would’ve brought your legs up and hugged your knees to your chest. You would’ve made yourself small because that’s how you felt. It didn’t help that you were feeling overwhelmed with emotions. Angry because he had kissed Hannah. Enamored because it’s Ernie and even after that, you still love him. Hurt. Happy that he came back to you – you missed him, his presence in your life the past few days. Some version of upset because Ernie looked so sad, like a kicked puppy.

“Hi,” he breathed, hesitantly walking toward you. He wasn’t sure how close he could get to you. He wanted to rush up to you, to hug you, to kiss you like he always does. But the look on your face tells him that he doesn’t have the right, not right now, not after what happened.

You didn’t say anything. Part of you wanted to yell and scream, another part wanted to never see him again, and yet another part of you wished he would hold you and comfort you like he did whenever you had nightmares from war.

Ernie looked from the armchair next to the couch to the empty side of the couch.

“Can… Can I sit?” he asked, gesturing to the couch.

You wordlessly nodded. It wasn’t until then that you noticed he had a small box in his hands. It wasn’t wrapped or anything. A plain cardboard box.

“Y/N… you have no idea how good it is to see your face.” It really was. Even though you’d look better, the effects of the past days evident on you, you were still beautiful. “It’s been horrible with you. I hate knowing you’ve been, beyond pissed at me, while I’ve been at home alone.”

“What, Hannah hasn’t kept you company?” you asked, voice edging on a snarl. It was a low blow, but you felt justified in it. He was the one who kissed someone else, not you.

He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. “No. I’d expect she wouldn’t after I told her I’m happily married.” He paused, opening his eyes to see if you had any reaction – you didn’t yet unless your slightly more neutral expression counted. “Erm, so, Harry told me what you saw. And, Merlin, I wish you hadn’t.”

“So you could’ve kept it your little secret?”

“No! No… I would’ve told you when I got home. Told you the whole story. Which is that I was working, I heard my voice. I looked up and Hannah comes barreling in. She kissed me. I didn’t kiss her. I threw her off of me! I did not kiss her. I would never, never kiss anyone other than you. Please, you have to believe me.”

You stared at Ernie. You were unsure. You swore you saw him kiss her back.

“I didn’t kiss her. I have no feelings for her. I love you. And it’s absolutely horrible without you. I need you.”

You took a shaky breath. “I have that… that… that image burned in my mind.”

“I’m so, so, so sorry, Y/N. But you have to know that you’re the only girl for me. I could never leave you. I could never love anyone else.”

He looked down at the box in his hands and held it out for you. You took it gingerly. No words were exchanged, just a confused look from you and a hopeful one from him. He nodded at you, a silent signal for you to open the box. You thumbed the folded flaps for a second before slowly lifting them. You slowly lifted the object out of the box, turning it over in your hands.

“You didn’t…” you whispered.

“I did,” he whispered back, scooting closer to you.

It wasn’t much. It was a stone figurine from where you two went on your first real date together. You recalled looking at it for at least five minutes, debating if you wanted to buy it. Ultimately you decided against it, but Ernie noticed. He noticed that you had wanted it and he remembered. He went back and got it. It was a small gesture, but it meant so much to you.

“Y/N, you are the best thing to ever happen to me. I love you more than life itself. I never want to see you hurting, certainly not like this, not because I let you down. I need you to know that.”

You looked from the figurine to Ernie. Tears started to well in your eyes. There was so much going on in your head and you couldn’t filter through it all fast enough.

“Please, give me another chance.”

“Another chance,” you whispered, more to yourself than Ernie, and then slightly louder to him, “I can do that.”

Ernie scooted even closer to you, gently placing his hand over yours. “That’s all I need.”

You gave him a small smile. Ernie leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on your check. Once he started, however, he couldn’t stop. He missed you too much and he was extremely grateful that he had you back in his arms. He kissed you over and over again, each time gently and softly and lovingly.

“Will you come home?” he asked.

You nodded before looking at Ernie with tearful eyes. You weren’t sure when you started crying but they were the result of feeling too at once.

“If we can have ice cream when we get there.”

Ernie laughed – boy, it felt good to laugh – and pulled you into a tight hug. “We can have whatever you want. I just need you by my side, love.”