The Russian manor was quiet, bathed in the soft, golden light of a late afternoon. Seo-jun sat propped up on the large bed, his hands resting on the pronounced curve of his stomach. The baby had been active all day, a constant, rolling reminder of the life growing within him—a life inextricably linked to the man he missed with an ache that was both physical and emotional.
The door opened softly, and Do-hyun entered, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of soup. His expression was one of careful, practiced tenderness.
"I brought you some soup. You need to keep your strength up," he said, his voice unnaturally gentle.
"Thank you, Do-hyun," Seo-jun replied, offering a small, tired smile and reaching for the bowl.
"Let me," he insisted, sitting on the edge of the bed. He dipped the spoon, blew softly on it to cool the broth, and held it to his lips. The gesture was intimate, yet it felt clinical, a duty he was performing.
