Morning came not with the sun, but with a quiet breathing — warm, barely noticeable, as if the house was finally breathing on its own. The air smelled of milk, baby powder, and something wonderfully new — as if life itself was filling the walls with this fresh, trembling scent.
A clock ticked in the kitchen. Outside the window, the city hummed steadily, but here, inside, time seemed to slow down.
Do-yun stood by the crib, a soft towel in his hands, and in his eyes — the light of those who still don't fully believe that a miracle has truly happened.
The baby quietly snuffled, wrinkled his tiny nose, his lips sometimes moving as if repeating something unheard.
Seungho stood slightly apart, silent. He rarely interfered in these moments — he just watched. Everything else became unimportant: documents, courts, voices, even his own thoughts. Everything vanished when he saw Do-yun leaning over the child — cautiously, tenderly, with a kind of quiet uncertainty that held all his affection.
— You're awake, — Seungho said softly, moving closer.
Do-yun chuckled.
— He's awake — I'm awake. I think we're connected forever now.
— That is family, — Seungho replied quietly.
They exchanged a brief glance. No words were needed to understand — neither of them fully believed that their life was now like this: slow, real, without fire and fear.
⋆⋆⋆
Night came quickly. The house plunged into a thick silence, broken only by soft sounds: the quiet turn of a doorknob, the light click of a switch, a whimper from the nursery.
Seungho woke up first — it was a habit. He immediately heard Do-yun get up; his steps were cautious, almost inaudible.
He followed him and stopped at the nursery door. Moonlight fell on the crib, on Do-yun's shoulders, on his hair. He stood, gently rocking the baby in his arms, and humming.
His voice was soft, slightly hoarse with fatigue, but the melody was gentle, like silk — a simple, old-fashioned lullaby, with no words about pain or fate, only about sleep and warmth.
Seungho stood in the half-light, unmoving. Something warm and quiet slowly spread in his chest. He didn't know when he had grown so accustomed to this silence, to the sound of his voice, to the baby's breathing, which now seemed to be the meaning of everything.
Do-yun gently rocked the little one and sang:
— Sleep, my light, sleep while the world is still…
His lips barely moved, his eyelashes trembled. He didn't notice Seungho; he just sang, as if afraid that the silence would become too loud again.
The baby finally stilled; his breathing became even.
Do-yun bent down and kissed the top of his head.
Seungho walked closer, placed his palm on his back.
— You're tired, — he said.
— A little, — Do-yun replied. — But it's worth it.
He smiled, and that smile was like light — not harsh, not celebratory, but the very morning light when you first see the world without fear.
Seungho knelt beside the crib, looked at the child.
— He's smiling.
— In his sleep? — Do-yun was surprised.
— Yes. See?
And indeed — the corners of the baby's mouth twitched, as if a shadow of a smile passed over his face.
Do-yun quietly laughed.
— He's probably dreaming of us rocking him. Or of me singing.
— Or of him keeping us awake, — Seungho chuckled.
They both laughed, but silently, so as not to wake him. Then Seungho reached out, gently wrapped his arms around Do-yun's waist, pulling him close.
— You know, — he said, — I thought the scariest thing was losing. But it turns out the scariest thing is not learning to live on.
— We are learning, — Do-yun replied softly. — Every day.
Seungho nodded. They stood side by side, looking at the child, listening to him breathe. It was quiet outside the window. Even the city seemed alive but not alarming — as if it had fallen asleep with them.
Seungho lowered his head, pressed his lips to Do-yun's temple.
— You're handling it, — he whispered.
— I'm trying.
— That's enough.
He kissed him slowly — not passionately, but as if reinforcing every word.
Do-yun's fingers slid along his cheek, then his neck, pausing at his collarbone. The world became narrow, like the space between their breaths, and huge — like the feeling inside.
He returned the kiss, short and soft, not moving further. Just the touch of their lips, as a reminder: they are alive, everything is good.
After a moment, Do-yun pulled back and whispered:
— Let's go to sleep before he calls us again.
Seungho smiled, took his hand.
The room became quiet again, only the baby's breathing — like the rustle of sleep.
Before leaving, Do-yun looked back. The baby was indeed smiling — in his sleep, barely noticeable, but confidently, as if he already knew the world around him was safe.
Seungho also turned, caught the moment, and said quietly:
— See? Even he knows that everything is real now.
Do-yun nodded.
— Yes. Everything is real.
They left for the darkness of the bedroom, leaving the door ajar so the light from the nightlight softly fell on the crib. The house breathed evenly, as if it had fallen asleep with them.
And for the first time in a long time, neither of them waited for trouble.
Only silence.
Only breathing.
And a tiny smile in sleep — which became the start of a new morning.