The rains were gone, and for the first time in a long while, the windows were left slightly ajar—to let air into the house that didn't smell of fear and smoke. The soft light of the nightlight in the nursery colored the walls a warm, honey hue. Do-yun sat in the chair by the crib, hugging his knees. A dark blue blanket, the one they had chosen together before the birth, was draped over his lap. The baby slept—quietly, with short breaths, as if dreaming of something all the time.
He couldn't take his eyes off him. And suddenly, he realized he didn't feel joy. Only a weight—not of the body, but of existence itself. The heavy burden of responsibility from which there was no hiding.
— You're awake? — Seungho asked quietly.
Do-yun didn't turn around.
— I'm scared, — he exhaled. — Everything feels... wrong. I don't know how to be.
— Just being is already enough, — Seungho said, coming closer.
He knelt down beside him, carefully, so as not to wake the child. He smelled of mint and something domestic—that scent that meant safety.
— Did you hold him wrong? — he asked.
— I guess so. He cried so much... I didn't know what I did wrong.
Seungho smiled, without judgment.
— Can I show you?
He held out his hands. Do-yun hesitated, then carefully passed the baby over. Seungho took hold, supporting the head, tossed him slightly, and the baby quieted.
— See? It's not about you. It's just... my hands are a little heavier, he feels calmer this way.
Do-yun lowered his eyes.
— I feel like he senses everything. Every fear I have.
— Of course, he senses it, — Seungho said softly. — He's yours, after all.
He handed the baby back. The warm, almost weightless body rested on Do-yun's chest. He sighed.
— You're doing it, — Seungho said. — See?
— I'm afraid of messing everything up.
— You can't. Because you're already doing everything right.
He sat down next to him, embracing his shoulders. Do-yun's body was hot—not from fever, but from exhaustion. His pheromones came in an uncertain wave—soft, tired, without defense. Seungho ran his palm along his neck, to his shoulder.
— You don't have to be perfect. You are already needed.
These words sounded simple, without pressure. But they contained everything Do-yun had been waiting for so long. He suddenly felt the air he'd been holding since the hospital leaving his chest. All this time, he'd held on, tensed up, hiding his fear behind smiles. And now—he let go.
He leaned towards Seungho, almost unconsciously, and Seungho met him with a kiss. First, a short, almost apologetic one. Then—deeper, warmer, more alive. Seungho didn't rush. His hands slid down his back, along the line of his shoulder blades, as if wanting to remember the shape of the body that had returned from pain.
Do-yun exhaled quietly. They left the nursery without turning on the light and stopped in the corridor. Seungho pressed him against the wall, but not like a predator—like a man afraid to lose something.
— I don't want you to feel alone, — he whispered.
— Then stay, — Do-yun replied, clinging to him.
They moved toward the bedroom. It was semi-dark; only the light from the nursery fell in a strip across the sheets. Seungho slowly unbuttoned his shirt, his fingers brushing his skin. Not like before—not passion, but a check: Is he alive? Is he whole?
Do-yun lifted his head, meeting his gaze. Everything inside him trembled—from fatigue, from closeness, from finally allowing himself to let go. Yun kissed slowly. Every kiss—a promise. Every breath—an admission. His hands slid down, embracing his hips. The movements were soft, cautious. The air filled with warmth and their scent—a mix of milk, skin, and pheromones.
— Seungho... — he called quietly, almost soundlessly.
— I'm here.
He entered him slowly, as if afraid to cause pain. The movements weren't fast—they were sticky, deep, rhythmic, like breathing after a long separation. Do-yun felt waves of heat pass through his body, but with them, the fear also left. Seungho held his hands, not letting him look away.
— Look at me.
— Why?
— Because I want you to see.
These words ran through him like a current. He exhaled, squeezing his fingers in return, and everything merged—body, breath, voice, the light from the nursery, the smell of life.
When it was over, Seungho didn't let go of him. Do-yun lay on his chest, listening to his heartbeat—steady, calm. A soft peep was heard nearby—the baby turned in his sleep.
— I think we're doing okay, — Do-yun whispered.
— We always were, — Seungho replied. — You just didn't believe it before.
Closer to dawn, he fell asleep. Seungho covered him with the blanket, got up, and walked to the window. The city was still sleeping. But a notification flashed on his phone screen. Unknown number. No text—just a photograph. Their house. Taken from the street. Below, the caption: Heroes in the Crosshairs.
Seungho stared at the screen for a long time. He wasn't angry. He wasn't surprised. He simply placed the phone face down—and returned to the bed. He lay down next to them, embracing them both—Do-yun and the baby. And for the first time, he understood: the fear would be permanent now. But now he had someone to walk through it for.