The park breathed the scent of spring — damp earth, fresh leaves, and somewhere in the air, a faint fragrance of blossoming trees. Branches intertwined over the path, forming a canopy beneath which the world seemed quieter than usual.
Do-yun walked slowly, holding Min's hand. The little boy took clumsy, short steps — first with doubt, then more boldly. His every movement resembled a tiny victory: he would sway, he would stumble, but he stubbornly kept going. Seungho walked slightly behind, watching.
— One more step, — Do-yun said softly. — Like that. Good job.
The boy giggled, looked up at him as if he were proud of himself. Seungho didn't interfere. He simply stood with his hands in his pockets, watching the two most important people in his life walk along this narrow path — as if the whole world had narrowed down to this frame. The light from the lamps filtered through the foliage, casting spots on their shoulders, and this light seemed almost alive.
— He's stubborn, — he noted when they stopped in front of a bench.
— I wonder who he gets that from? — Do-yun replied with a smile.
— Definitely not you.
— Of course. I'm exemplary.
In response to their voices, Min clapped his hands and took another step — this time without support. One. Then a second. And fell right onto the grass.
Do-yun gasped, but the little one only laughed.
— Did you see? — he said, turning to Seungho. — All by himself!
— I saw, — the other replied, walking closer. — And it looks like we now have someone who inherited your stubbornness.
He crouched down, picked up Min, brushed the grass off him, and then held Do-yun's gaze.
— You know… I thought happiness would be louder.
— Louder?
— Well, like in movies. Music, applause, drama. But it's quiet. Just like this… standing and breathing next to you.
Do-yun didn't answer immediately. He sat down next to them, taking Min onto his lap. The little one was already starting to rub his eyes with his fists, tired from his own victories.
— Quiet happiness is the most genuine, — he said. — It doesn't need an audience.
Seungho smiled slightly.
— I guess so.
He reached out and adjusted the collar of Do-yun's shirt — a familiar, caring gesture.
— When I look at you, everything inside becomes… right. As if every piece has finally fallen into place.
Do-yun looked at him, quietly, but with that special expression that needed no words.
— Then don't let go.
— I won't let go.
They fell silent. Branches rustled overhead, and sparse petals, having broken off, fell directly onto their shoulders and hair. Min slept in Do-yun's arms, his lips trembling slightly in his sleep, as if he continued to laugh. Seungho looked up at the trees. The sun was already setting, coloring the sky in shades of pink and gold.
— I never thought that just… walking next to you, keeping you in sight — and that would be enough.
— And now?
— Now I think I've never been happier.
Do-yun squeezed his hand — not hard, but just enough for him to feel it.
— Then don't get used to it too quickly, — he said softly. — We still have a whole lifetime ahead of us to be surprised.
Seungho chuckled, but something warm, almost luminous, remained in his gaze. He looked at the road ahead, at the soft light of the lamps, at the alley strewn with flowers.
— Alright. Then I'll just remember this evening. — He nodded at the sleeping baby. — His first step — is his. And mine — is next to you.
Do-yun leaned in, resting his head on his shoulder. The silence between them was not empty — it was breathing. A light breeze carried the scent of spring, the rustle of leaves, and distant laughter from the other end of the park. And in this silence, there was neither past nor pain — only the three of them. Under the trees, where the petals fell like a promise that now — everything was real.