The airport greeted them with its familiar noise — voices, announcements, the smell of coffee and metal. But now, this noise didn't irritate or remind them of anxiety — it sounded like confirmation that life was moving on, that the world was still spinning.
Do-yun walked next to Seungho, holding slightly closer than usual. He didn't speak; he just breathed, absorbing every sound. Only a few days had passed, but it felt like a lifetime. The salt of the sea and the wind of the island still lingered on their skin.
Seungho walked silently, but he was smiling. For the first time in a long time, there was no trace of weariness or hidden alertness on his face. He looked as if he truly believed in the morning.
When the automatic doors slid open, the city air enveloped them — thick, warm, mixed with gasoline, wet asphalt, and something domestic, familiar. Do-yun inhaled deeper than he intended.
— It smells of… noise.
Seungho chuckled.
— Welcome home.
A taxi was already waiting at the exit. They barely talked during the ride — only occasionally Seungho would place his palm on his knee, and Do-yun would respond with a slight movement of his fingers. Words weren't necessary — they both knew that not peace, but a new life awaited them. But now — without fear.
When the car turned toward their house, Do-yun tensed up. He had been waiting for this moment — yet he wasn't ready. Something pricked his chest, as if from impatience and excitement at the same time.
The door was opened by their nanny, the same woman who had stayed with Min. There was a smile on her face, tired but sincere.
— You're here, — she said. — He was waiting.
Seungho stepped inside first, but stopped, letting Do-yun go ahead. Their house smelled of milk, clean sheets, and something faintly discernible — sweet and new, like a baby's breath.
Soft twilight reigned in the nursery. Min lay in the crib, quietly stirring, as if he sensed that the air around him had changed. Do-yun walked closer, leaned over him, and the little one opened his eyes. The eyes were just like his — dark, deep, slightly sleepy. And in them, there was no fear, no surprise. Only recognition.
— Hello, — Do-yun whispered. He ran a finger over the tiny palm, and Min squeezed it — firmly, tenaciously. — You've grown, — he said almost in a whisper, though only a few days had passed.
Seungho walked over, hugging his shoulders. Both looked down — at this tiny miracle that breathed evenly, calmly, as if the world had finally become safe.
— He missed you, — the nanny said softly.
— We missed him too, — Seungho replied.
The woman smiled.
— You know, children sense things. He didn't cry once, he just… waited. Because he knew: you would return.
Do-yun looked at her. She added, softly, almost with maternal warmth:
— He needs you. But you — need him even more. More than anyone.
Seungho nodded.
— We know that.
When the nanny left, leaving the three of them, the house became genuinely quiet. The silence was not deafening, not heavy — it was alive. It held breathing, the rustle of fabric, the baby's occasional snuffling.
Do-yun sat on the edge of the bed, looking at his son.
— Is he always this calm?
— When you're near, — Seungho replied.
— Strange…
— Why?
— Because I myself am still not calm.
Seungho sat down next to him, took his hand.
— Then he senses not anxiety, but love. And that's the best you can give him.
Do-yun smiled, tiredly but happily.
— I never thought that coming home could be met not with exhaustion, but with hope.
Seungho looked at him:
— That's because now you're not coming home alone.
They sat side by side, listening to the cars pass outside the window, as the city lived its life again. Do-yun leaned over, kissed the baby's forehead, then turned to Seungho.
— Thank you.
— For what?
— For waiting.
— Did I have a choice? — Seungho chuckled. — You would have found your way home anyway.
Their eyes met. Everything else — the fatigue, the fears, the memories — faded away, like the noise outside the window. Only this morning remained, this house, and three people breathing in the same rhythm.
Seungho stood up, quietly closed the nursery door, and turned around:
— Want some tea?
Do-yun nodded.
— But not strong. I want the night to be quiet.
— It will be. It will always be now.
And as they walked into the living room, the sun was already beginning to slide across the curtains.