Soft light from the nightlight was on the floor; an open book, long forgotten, was on the sofa.
The room held that special silence that only appears when the baby has finally fallen asleep.
Seungho carefully rocked the little one in his arms. He walked around the room slowly, rhythmically, as if every movement were part of some ancient, sacred ritual. The baby slept, nose buried in his chest, and from that tiny breathing, Seungho somehow felt — the world made sense again.
He spoke softly, almost a whisper:
— When you grow up, I'll show you the sea. A real, big one. The wind smells of salt there, and the waves talk if you listen closely.
— And then we'll go to the mountains; the stars are closer there than anywhere else. Your mom… — he stumbled, then corrected, — your Do-yun loves the mountains. Maybe you will also look up and search the sky.
The bedroom door opened slightly. Do-yun stood in the doorway, pale, in a long shirt, with a tired look. He leaned against the frame.
— Did he fall asleep?
— Just now.
— With miracles or without?
Seungho chuckled.
— With a story about the stars.
Do-yun nodded and entered. The shadow of his figure fell on the floor — elongated, fragile.
— You haven't rested again, — Seungho said, looking at him.
— Have you? — Do-yun replied. — I don't remember the last time I slept for more than an hour.
He walked closer, took the baby, and gently laid him in the crib. His fingers were trembling, and Seungho noticed it. He started to say something, but held back — he knew that right now, any word could be a match.
Do-yun adjusted the blanket, then straightened up and, as if breaking, began to speak:
— Why do you do everything right, and I don't?
Seungho blinked.
— What?
— You're calm, confident, always know what to say. And I'm constantly on the edge. I don't understand when he cries; I don't know what he needs. I'm always afraid… — He cut himself off, ran a hand over his face. — Sometimes I feel like I just can't handle it. Like I'm… extra.
Silence. Only the clock ticking. Seungho slowly walked closer, stood next to him.
— You're not extra, — he said calmly.
— Don't start. I don't need comforting. I know what you'll say.
— No, you don't, — Seungho replied in the same tone. — I'm not going to comfort you. I'm just here.
He took a step closer, touched his shoulder, but Do-yun sharply pulled away.
— Stop being perfect! — he blurted out. — I need you to be tired too, to be angry, to say just once that it's hard for you!
Seungho was silent. A few seconds — too long. And then he exhaled:
— I am angry. Every day. When I can't help you. When I hear you crying in the bathroom and pretending it wasn't you. — He looked him straight in the eyes. — But if I break — who will hold us together?
Do-yun lowered his head. His lips trembled; his breathing hitched.
— Then I just… I don't know how to breathe next to you when you're always so composed.
— And I don't know how to live if you disappear, — Seungho replied quietly.
He walked closer, and this time, Do-yun didn't pull away. Seungho hugged him, pressed him to his chest. Not comforting — just holding him while he trembled, burying his face in his shoulder.
Minutes passed. The silence between them became thick, like the air before rain, but there was no more anger in it. Only exhaustion and a strange, unconditional closeness.
Do-yun exhaled.
— I'm sorry.
— You don't need to be. We are both learning.
He drew back slightly, cupped Do-yun's face in his palms.
— Do you know what I see when I look at you?
— What?
— A person who survived. And is now learning to live.
He kissed his forehead, then the corner of his lips. Gently, as if returning his breath.
Do-yun closed his eyes; his lips trembled.
— I'm still afraid, — he said softly.
— And that's normal.
Seungho ran his fingers along his cheek, down his neck, to his collarbone. The touches were light, almost weightless. Not passion, not desire — just warmth, a way of saying: I'm with you.
Do-yun pressed his forehead to his chest, and in that movement was everything — apology, gratitude, love. Seungho bent down, kissed his hair.
— Sleep. I'll stay with him.
— No, — Do-yun lifted his head, his eyes still moist. — Stay with me. Just… stay.
They lay down side by side, without turning on the light. In the darkness, the baby's breathing was heard from the next room — steady, warm, like the rhythm of a new life. Seungho hugged him, pulled him closer. He kissed his temple, his shoulder, his fingers. Do-yun sighed, tensed, then relaxed, allowing himself for the first time in many days to just lie there — without thinking, without fear.
The warmth between them became soft, not intense. Kisses turned into quiet caresses — slow, cautious. Without rush. Without strain. Like a reconciliation. Like breathing.
— We're tired, — Seungho said.
— Yes, — Do-yun replied. — But I still don't want this to end.
He smiled, almost sleepily. Seungho ran his fingers along his cheek, over his lips.
— We'll go for a walk tomorrow, — he said. — Just to the park.
— All three of us?
— Of course.
Do-yun nodded, his eyes already closing.
— Then let tomorrow be easy.
— It will be, — Seungho replied, and quietly added: — We deserve it.
He remained lying there until Do-yun's breathing became even. And then he touched his hand — carefully, so as not to wake him — and allowed himself to smile for the first time in a long time. Outside, the night city shone with lights, but inside the house, there was silence — not empty, but alive. And in this silence, for the first time, there was no fear. Only peace. And the promise — tomorrow would be a day.