Work Text:
The key turning in the lock was the sweetest sound you’d heard in months. You were settled on the couch, feet propped up on a mountain of pillows, a book resting unread on the curve of your belly. You heard the soft thud of his suitcase in the entryway, the familiar shuffle of his shoes being kicked off, and then his voice, hesitant and soft.
“Jagi? I’m home.”
“I’m in here,” you called back, a smile already spreading across your face.
Seungmin appeared in the doorway of the living room, and for a moment, he just stood there, his eyes wide. The last time he’d seen you, you were just beginning to show, a small, sweet bump that he could still easily wrap his arms around. Now, in your third trimester, you were undeniably, beautifully pregnant. His gaze swept over you, taking in the full, round belly, the softer curve of your hips, the way you were nestled into the cushions. The shock on his face quickly melted into something else—a look of pure, unadulterated wonder.
“Wow,” he breathed, a small smile touching his lips. He crossed the room in three long strides, dropping to his knees in front of you. He didn’t touch you at first, just looked, his eyes tracing the landscape of your changed body. “You’re… you’re so beautiful.”
You reached out, cupping his cheek. “Hi, stranger.”
He leaned into your touch, closing his eyes for a second before opening them again. “Hi.” He finally placed a hand on your stomach, right over the spot where his child was growing, and his expression softened even further. “I missed you so much.”
And just like that, the quiet, steady caretaker mode you knew and loved so well clicked into place. He didn’t panic. He didn’t ask a hundred frantic questions. He simply observed, assessed, and acted.
“You look tired,” he noted, his thumb stroking gently over your belly. “Are you sleeping okay? Is your back hurting? Let me get you some water.”
Before you could answer, he was up and moving, his efficiency a comforting balm. He returned with a tall glass of ice water, placed it on the coaster within your reach, and then meticulously rearranged your pillows, fluffing them and tucking them behind your back until you let out a contented sigh.
“Better?” he asked.
“Much,” you sighed, leaning into the plush support.
He spent the next hour like that—a whirlwind of quiet, purposeful activity. He unpacked his suitcase without a second thought, his focus entirely on you. He made you a snack, cutting up an apple with the precision of a surgeon. He noticed the baby books on the side table and picked one up, flipping through it with a serious expression, as if cramming for a final exam.
“Have you been walking? The doctor said light exercise is good,” he murmured, his mind already cataloging a new routine.
“Seungmin, breathe,” you said, laughing softly as you took his hand. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Everything is under control.”
He looked down at your joined hands, then back at your stomach, and the intense focus in his eyes softened. “I know. I just… I have a lot of lost time to make up for.” He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, then another to your forehead. “I’m home now. Let me take care of you.”
And he did. For the rest of the evening, he was the picture of quiet strength. He drew you a bath with Epsom salts for your aching back, he cooked dinner, and he sat with you on the couch, his hand a constant, warm presence on your belly, talking softly about his tour and listening intently to every detail he’d missed.
Later that night, you were fast asleep, your breathing deep and even. The moon cast a soft glow across the room, illuminating the peaceful curve of your profile. Seungmin lay on his side, propped up on an elbow, just watching you. He’d been awake for hours, just soaking in the sight of you, so full and round with his child.
He reached out, his hand hovering over your stomach before gently resting his palm against it. The baby stirred under his touch, a faint flutter against his skin, and his breath caught in his throat.
This was real. This was happening. In just a few short weeks, he would be a father. The weight of it, the sheer, terrifying, magnificent responsibility of it all, finally settled over him. The calm, capable facade he’d worn all evening crumbled in the privacy of the dark.
He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching your side. “I’m scared,” he whispered, the confession so quiet it was barely a sound, meant only for the night and for the tiny life listening within. “I’m scared I won’t be enough. That I won’t know what to do.”
He felt another flutter, a gentle kick, as if in response. A tear slipped from the corner of his eye and onto the pillowcase.
He took a shaky breath, his resolve hardening. He pressed his lips to your stomach in a solemn, silent vow. “But I promise,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “I promise I will spend every single day of my life trying. I’ll be someone you can always rely on. Both of you. I’ll be your rock. Always.”
He stayed like that for a long time, his hand resting on your stomach, his promise hanging in the quiet air. He was scared, yes, but underneath it all was a love so profound, so fierce, that he knew it would be enough. It had to be.