The evening was quiet, as if the house itself didn't want to disturb their return. The sun had already set, leaving behind a soft gold in the curtains and the scent of something cozy — a mix of milk, clean sheets, and a new breath.
Do-yun sat on the floor next to the crib, with a pillow supporting his back. A soft toy — a rabbit with a slightly bent ear that they had chosen before their son's birth — lay on his lap. Next to him, in the crib, Min lay on his back, looking at the ceiling, his fingers reaching into the air, as if trying to catch the light.
Seungho stood by the wall, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. He watched — simply, attentively, without interfering. There was no tension in his gaze, only a quiet, almost imperceptible happiness, the kind a person recognizes when they finally stop waiting for disaster.
— He's growing, — Do-yun said softly, without looking up.
— Uh-huh.
— Even his gaze seems different.
— He just knows we're here now.
Min made a short sound — something between a husky "agh" and a giggle. Do-yun looked up, and the next moment, the baby reached out his hands — first towards him, then, seeing Seungho, towards him too. Two tiny hands in the air, persistent, confident.
Do-yun froze.
— He's… reaching for us.
Seungho walked closer, crouching down beside him.
— He's not choosing, — he said with a quiet smile. — He's just calling for both of us.
The little one made the same sound again, a little louder, and started pushing the blanket with his legs, as if hurrying them. Do-yun carefully picked him up.
— Hello, — he whispered. — We came back. See?
Min looked at him and… smiled. A genuine smile — not just a reflex, but as if he recognized him. Seungho quietly exhaled. He reached out his hand, touched the tiny forehead. The baby turned his head and, without stopping his smile, grabbed his finger.
— That's it, — Seungho said with the same quiet smile. — He chose.
— Who?
— Both.
Do-yun laughed — not loudly, but with a lightness that hadn't been there for a long time.
— He's probably just happy there are two of us.
— And I'm happy there are three of us.
The baby suddenly yawned, widely, with an unexpectedly serious expression. Do-yun held him to his chest, rocking him.
— Sleep, — he said. — Today you can just sleep. Without fear, without running.
Seungho stood up, walked closer, and placed his hand on Do-yun's shoulder. The evening light fell upon both of them — soft, warm, as if the very air decided to witness their peace. Min was already falling asleep. His fingers still held Seungho's finger, and his head rested on Do-yun's chest. Everything was in that gesture — connection, trust, the memory of a hard-won peace.
— He looks like you, — Seungho said.
— No. Like you.
— Like us, — Seungho smiled. — Funny, stubborn, and alive.
They stood like that for a long time — one holding their son, the other holding both. Everything around them became slow, like the breathing of a sleeping child. The house filled with that rhythm — warm, steady, real.
Do-yun looked up, meeting Seungho's eyes.
— You know, — he said, — I used to think a family was a place.
— And now?
— Now I understand: it's people.
Seungho nodded.
— And the house doesn't fall down if you're in it.
He kissed his temple — lightly, almost imperceptibly. A quiet settled in Do-yun's chest. Not from exhaustion, but from the very feeling for which everything else was worth surviving. Outside, the city whispered its rhythm — distant cars, someone's laughter, the wind between the buildings. But inside, everything was different. The house was breathing.