#dad stray kids | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

4linos · 19 days ago

Text

the letter pt. 2

han jisung x fem!reader

synopsis: after a devastating breakup over the future you couldn't agree on, you and jisung are left unraveling in the aftermath. you wanted a family. he wanted freedom.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, (unplanned) pregnancy, jealousy & miscommunication, emotional cheating undertones.

wc: 8740

[the letter part. 1, the letter part. 3]

Acceptance didn’t come with a sudden epiphany.

It came slowly, quietly, like water wearing away at stone.

At first, the silence nearly destroyed you. The ache of waiting for a call that never came, the sting of every passing day that confirmed what you didn’t want to believe: Jisung wasn’t going to show up. He wasn’t going to reach out. He wasn’t going to be there. It was a hard truth, one that settled into your bones like winter, cold, heavy, impossible to ignore.

But slowly, with time, you began to understand something else: you didn’t need him to.

You didn’t need Jisung to make this real. You didn’t need his permission to move forward. You didn’t need his love or his regret to love this child growing inside of you.

That shift didn’t happen overnight. It took tears. Sleepless nights. A million conversations with Jia and Lana, where you said the same things again and again until the words lost their sting.

“He’s not coming back,” you had whispered one night, curled up on your couch, the blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders like armor. “He read it. I know he did. And if he wanted to be here, he would be.”

Jia nodded, her expression soft but steady. “And that’s on him.”

Lana, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bowl of snacks in her lap, added, “You don’t owe him anything. He made his choice. And now you’re making yours.”

Their words didn’t fix everything, but they helped you breathe a little easier.

You started to remember all the things you used to dream about when you were younger. The things you whispered to yourself late at night when the world felt too loud. You’d always wanted a child. Always wanted a tiny person to love, to protect, to raise into someone kind and strong. Your reasons weren’t grand or poetic, they were simple and honest.

You wanted someone to call yours.

A little hand to hold. A sleepy head to kiss goodnight. A home that echoed with laughter and quiet footsteps. You had always dreamed of family. Of stability. Of unconditional love.

And Jisung had once felt like a part of that dream.

But dreams change.

And now, though it was different, though it wasn’t the picture-perfect family you’d envisioned, complete with a partner who held your hand through morning sickness and doctor appointments, you were still going to have that love. You were still going to have someone who would call you theirs.

A child who would look at you like you were their whole world.

You began talking to your baby more. Not out loud at first, but in thoughts. Little whispers as you lay in bed, hand splayed over your stomach. You imagined what they’d look like. What kind of laugh they’d have. Whether they’d like music like Jisung, or books like you. You tried not to think about him much, but sometimes the thought crept in of him holding your baby, of him realizing what he’d walked away from. It still hurt.

But the hurt wasn’t as sharp anymore.

More of a dull ache. A scar instead of an open wound.

Jia and Lana were your constants, showing up with groceries, dragging you out of bed when the nausea wasn’t too bad, helping you put together a list of things you’d need. They kept reminding you that this child was already loved. That you were loved. That you hadn’t done anything wrong by wanting something Jisung couldn’t give.

“You’ve wanted this your whole life,” Jia said one morning as she rubbed your back while you heaved over the toilet. “This baby? This is your dream. Maybe not how you pictured it, but it’s still yours. That matters.”

You cried after she said it, not from sadness, but from the overwhelming sense of yes. Yes, this was yours. This life you were building, even if it was cracked around the edges, was real. It was happening. And it was going to be beautiful, even in its broken places.

Eventually, you stopped checking your phone for his name.

Eventually, you stopped wondering if he’d show up.

You started making lists, cribs, baby names, pediatricians. You started reading articles, watching videos, planning. You let yourself feel excited. Nervous. Hopeful. Because as lonely as it sometimes felt, there was something growing inside of you that had nothing to do with Jisung anymore.

This baby was yours.

And you were going to love them enough for the both of you.

At first, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The letter.

That goddamn letter.

It sat in his office desk drawer like it had claws, like it had buried itself deep into the wood, refusing to let go. Jisung had tried to forget it. He told himself it didn’t matter, that whatever you had to say was too late anyway. That if you really cared, you wouldn’t have walked out of his life like it was easy. Like he hadn’t fallen apart the moment the door shut behind you.

The drawer was closed, but his eyes kept drifting toward it.

Every time he sat down to write, to work, to practice, his gaze would flicker. Brief, but persistent. He told himself it was just curiosity, not hope. That it was normal to wonder. Normal to think about you. About the things you might’ve written.

Maybe it was an apology.

Maybe it was a desperate plea to get back together, to undo the fight, to rewrite the ending.

He convinced himself that’s all it could be. That you wanted him back, that you missed him like he missed you, except he wasn’t going to let himself believe you were sorry. Because then he’d have to forgive you. And Jisung didn’t want to forgive you.

He was angry.

Still heartbroken, sure. But underneath all that pain was anger, real, raw anger that scorched through his chest like wildfire every time he remembered how quickly you’d walked away. How you'd looked at him like he was the enemy for not wanting the same things. Like he was less because he hadn’t pictured the same white-picket-fence future you did.

So no, he didn’t open it.

He refused to.

The letter sat unopened for weeks, untouched but never fully ignored. It became part of his daily life, a silent weight in the back of his mind. A temptation. A wound. Something he both despised and felt tethered to.

He moved around it. Literally.

Every time he sat at the desk, his movements became sharper. He'd slam drawers harder, avoid resting anything near that one. He reorganized his workspace to make sure he wouldn’t have to reach near the envelope, as if proximity alone might make him cave.

Sometimes he’d linger there at night, just staring at the drawer. Fingers twitching. Wondering.

Not about you. He tried not to think about you anymore. But about what you thought you had to say. What gave you the nerve to write to him after leaving the way you did. After choosing a future without him.

Because that’s what it had felt like, hadn’t it? Like you’d made your choice. You wanted a family. A child. A life of stillness. And Jisung… Jisung wanted freedom. Music. The quiet, sacred simplicity of not being tied down, not yet. Not now. He hadn’t lied to you about that. He hadn’t pretended he wanted things he didn’t.

And yet, somehow, it still hadn’t been enough to make you stay.

So why write?

What could possibly be in that envelope that mattered now?

He started forgetting about it eventually. Or he told himself he did. The drawer stopped calling to him quite so loudly. He buried it beneath a stack of old receipts and tour paperwork. He told himself he didn’t care anymore.

And he didn’t.

Not until he started dreaming about you again.

Not until he walked into his apartment one night, bone tired, body aching from rehearsal and saw your old hoodie draped over the back of the couch. Something you must’ve left behind. He didn’t remember it being there before. Maybe it had fallen out of the closet. Maybe he’d just missed it. But the sight of it twisted something deep in his chest.

He sat down and held it for the first time in weeks.

Brought it to his nose, hoping for the faint trace of your perfume. The scent was long gone, but the memory of it was enough. He closed his eyes. Saw your face. Heard your voice.

“I just want something real, Jisung. Something stable. You don’t get it.”

He’d fought back that night. Screamed things he didn’t mean. Told you that stability wasn’t everything, that you were suffocating him with your picture-perfect expectations. He didn’t mean that either.

He never meant to lose you.

He just didn’t know how to give you what you wanted.

The dreams came harder after that.

Nights filled with half-remembered moments. You, crying. You, laughing. You, walking away. The drawer became heavier again. Not physically, but in the way it felt, in the way his chest grew tight every time he sat down at that desk.

And sometimes, just sometimes, he wondered if maybe the letter wasn’t what he thought it was.

If maybe you hadn’t written to beg, or plead, or apologize.

What if it was a goodbye?

What if it was closure?

The thought made him sick. And yet it stayed. Brewing. Spreading. Curling like smoke around the corners of his resolve.

Still, he didn’t open it.

Not yet.

Because once he did, there’d be no going back. Once he read what you had to say, whether it shattered him or made him ache to run back to you, it would mean something. It would change something. And he wasn’t ready.

Not to feel that kind of heartbreak all over again.

Not to face the truth of whatever words you'd left him with.

Not to know if the dream he’d been trying to forget… had already come true without him.

He hadn’t planned on checking his phone again that night.

It was late, past 1 a.m. and he should’ve been asleep. He was exhausted, not just in his body, but in a way that seemed to linger deep in his bones. The kind of exhaustion that didn’t come from long studio hours or back-to-back rehearsals. No, this was the kind of tired that came from missing something that used to feel like home.

But still, he scrolled.

A quiet habit now. Not for his fans or updates or even entertainment, just to feel connected to something, anything. Something that wasn’t the silence of his too-big apartment or the ache of everything you’d taken with you when you left.

His thumb stilled mid-scroll when he saw it.

Jia’s post.

A carousel of pictures, captioned with something casual, “good company, good weather, good wine.” But he didn’t read it right away. He couldn’t. Not when he saw you.

Laughing.

Head thrown back, leaned gently against someone’s shoulder, a guy, unfamiliar, laughing just as openly. It was a candid shot, clearly taken without warning, but it was beautiful. Painfully beautiful.

You looked happy.

And it hit him like a punch to the ribs.

He stared at the picture, unmoving. It was the first time he’d seen you in months. Jia and Lana hadn’t posted you in so long that he’d started to wonder if they were keeping your face off on purpose. Maybe they knew he still looked. Maybe you had asked them not to.

And yet, here you were. In the open. In color.

Smiling.

And not at him.

Jisung dropped his phone like it burned. It landed screen-down on the desk in front of him, but the image was already scorched behind his eyes. You, in that cream-colored cardigan he always liked. The same soft one you’d throw over your shoulders when it got cold, even inside. Your laugh, he could hear it in his mind even if he hadn’t heard it in months.

The drawer creaked.

That drawer.

He didn’t mean to open it, but suddenly, it was. His hand moved before his mind could catch up. The paper felt heavier than it should’ve. The envelope was still sealed, still clean, untouched despite all the time it had spent hidden beneath ignored things.

He stared at it. Again. For the hundredth time.

You’d written his name on the front in your handwriting, he’d always liked your handwriting. Neat, but a little messy in that cute way. It was the kind of thing you didn’t think people noticed, but Jisung had noticed everything.

He lifted it slowly, as if even that movement required more strength than he had left.

The letter rested in his hands.

And then the picture came back to him again that guy, the way your eyes crinkled at something he said, how natural it looked, like it had always been him and not Jisung. Like Jisung was some ghost from another life you didn’t think about anymore.

A rush of something hot surged in his chest.

Anger. Jealousy. Bitterness.

It was a mistake, picking it up. He knew it was a mistake.

You probably wrote this before you met that guy. Before you moved on. Before you laughed like you had never cried over him. So what was the point now? What was the fucking point?

His grip tightened.

The edge of the envelope bent in his palm.

He was going to rip it.

Tear it into a thousand worthless pieces.

He didn’t need your words. He didn’t need your explanation, or apology, or whatever twisted kind of closure you thought this would give him. If you were so happy now, if you had someone else's shoulder to lean on, someone else to laugh with then he didn’t need to carry your ghost anymore.

The paper creaked as it began to fold beneath the pressure of his fingers.

But something stopped him.

Not guilt. Not even curiosity.

Just a question. Soft, poisonous, and small.

What if it wasn’t what I thought it was?

It came quietly. It always did.

Jisung closed his eyes, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. His heart thudded unevenly in his chest. His fingers didn’t release the envelope, but he didn’t tear it either.

Because something was wrong.

Something about that picture. As much as it hurt to see you with someone else, as much as it made him want to break something, there was a tiny flicker of something off. He didn’t know why it stood out, but it did.

The guy’s arm, he wasn’t touching you. Not possessively. Not the way Jisung used to.

And your smile, while bright… had a weariness to it. Something in your eyes. A tiredness he recognized.

Maybe he was imagining it. Reading into something that wasn’t there.

Or maybe he wasn’t.

The letter pulsed in his hand like it had weight now. Like it always had, and he was only just feeling it.

And for the first time in six months, Jisung wondered, really wondered what you had said in those pages.

And whether not knowing would haunt him more than the truth ever could.

At six months pregnant, the exhaustion was more than physical, it had dug itself into your spirit. You felt heavier than your body should've allowed. Not just with the child growing inside of you, but with the weight of silence. Of unanswered letters. Of unreturned phone calls that were never made. Of dreams you'd once held so tightly that now felt like strangers to you.

You had done everything right, or at least you tried to. You took your vitamins. Went to appointments. Listened to the doctor. Ate better. Slept when you could. Cried only when it was too much to hold back. You were being responsible, measured, careful, everything a mother should be.

But no one told you how lonely it would feel.

How much you’d mourn someone who was still alive.

And lately, even Jia and Lana noticed. They tried to smile extra wide around you, tried to pull you into silly conversations, binge shows with you in bed, paint your nails, cook your favorite meals. But the spark in your eyes, the part of you that lit up when you laughed, had dimmed. The grief was quieter now, but more permanent. More settled. Like it had accepted you as its host.

You weren’t bitter.

You didn’t cry over Jisung every night anymore. You didn’t ache the way you used to. But something had changed. You weren’t sure if it was the pregnancy, or the acceptance, or just time doing what it does, softening things while hollowing others out.

It was Jia who brought it up.

“I’ve been thinking,” she’d said carefully, whispering to Lana one afternoon as she watched you doze off mid-conversation.

“That’s never a good sign,” Lana had replied, side-eyeing her from across the room.

“No, seriously,” Jia said, sitting forward. “I think we should bring someone over. Someone who used to make her smile. For real smile.”

Lana’s brows furrowed. “Like… a therapist?”

“No. Chan.”

The silence that followed was thick.

Lana stared at her like she’d lost her mind. “Chan? As in, Christopher Bang? High school boyfriend Chan? Australia Chan?”

Jia nodded, lips tight. “She was happy with him, Lan. Like… really happy. He’s back in town. He messaged me a few days ago and asked about her.”

“She’s pregnant.”

“I know that.”

“And emotional.”

“I know, Lana.”

Lana crossed her arms. “And what if this backfires? What if seeing him makes her feel worse?”

“She hasn’t smiled in weeks.”

“She’s tired, Jia. She’s not depressed, she’s just—”

“I know what she is,” Jia had said, her voice breaking slightly. “And I know she’d never say it out loud, but she’s hurting. She feels like she’s being erased. Everyone sees her as a pregnant woman now, not her. Chan always saw her. Maybe she needs that.”

Reluctantly, Lana agreed.

So now here you were.

Sitting in a small cozy café that smelled like fresh lemons and sun-warmed pastries, a glass of lemonade sweating on the table in front of you, your hands resting protectively on your belly without even realizing it. Jia and Lana sat across from you, exchanging nervous glances every few seconds, which you were just about to comment on when—

A tap.

Soft. On your shoulder.

You turned.

And there he was.

Chan.

The boy who used to give you rides on the back of his bike after school. The boy who’d written you poetry in margins of your notebooks. The boy who once told you, so casually, that if he had a time machine, he’d go to the future just to see if you still ended up together.

He looked different, but not in a bad way. Taller, a little more filled out. His jaw was sharper. His hair shorter. But his smile? That was the same. Gentle, warm, slightly crooked on the left like it always had been.

You blinked in disbelief.

“Chan?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He grinned. “Hey, trouble.”

The old nickname made your chest tighten in the most unexpected way. You laughed before you could stop yourself, quiet, but real. The kind of laugh that had started to feel foreign.

Jia and Lana, now grinning like guilty conspirators, stood up quickly. “We’ll be back in a few. Just gonna, uh, go… admire the dessert case,” Jia mumbled, grabbing Lana's arm.

Lana gave Chan a wary look before disappearing with her.

You turned back to him. “It’s… been a long time.”

“Years,” he said. “Too many. You look… amazing.”

You snorted. “I look like a watermelon.”

He chuckled. “A beautiful watermelon, then.”

That made you laugh again, genuine. His eyes lit up, pleased, but not smug. Just soft.

He sat across from you, and for a few seconds, neither of you said anything. Just… took each other in. There was comfort there. The kind that doesn’t go away just because time passes. He didn’t feel like a stranger, even after all this time.

“Tell me everything,” he said finally. “How’ve you been?”

You looked down at your lemonade, then at your belly. “It’s been… hard,” you admitted. “But I’m okay. I’m getting there.”

He nodded. “You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

And that, that was what got you. The way his eyes didn’t immediately flicker to your belly. The way his questions weren’t laced with obligation or curiosity about the pregnancy. He saw you.

Not the bump. Not the situation. Just you.

You smiled again, softer this time. “You still make people feel like the world slows down when you talk to them. You know that?”

Chan looked surprised, almost bashful. “I missed this,” he said. “Us. Talking like this.”

“So did I,” you said quietly.

He asked about your family, about your writing. You asked about Australia, the music scene, the food he missed. It was like dusting off a record you hadn’t played in years but still remembered all the lyrics to.

And for the first time in months, you didn’t feel like just someone carrying someone else’s child.

You felt like you again.

And that… that felt like breathing.

Jia elbowed Lana gently as they both turned back from the dessert counter and peeked toward your table. You were laughing, really laughing. It wasn’t the kind of hollow, polite chuckle you’d forced out over the last several months. This was the kind that made your shoulders shake a little, your eyes squint, the kind that used to come so easily to you.

Jia grinned, whispering under her breath, “See? I told you. Look at her.”

Lana crossed her arms slowly, watching the way Chan leaned forward a little, listening intently to whatever you were saying. You were twirling the straw in your lemonade as you spoke, and he was smiling like it was the best story he’d ever heard.

“Why do you look like that?” Jia asked, brow raised. “You’ve had that same suspicious face on since he got here.”

“I’m not against it,” Lana muttered, still watching. “I’m just… not all in either.”

“Why not?” Jia nudged her again. “She’s finally laughing. Isn’t that what we wanted?”

“I do want her to smile,” Lana admitted. “I just… don’t want her to get hurt again. She’s not just her right now. She’s carrying someone else’s future. It’s not like she can afford to be reckless.”

Jia softened at that. “I don’t think this is reckless. It’s just… a moment. She deserves to feel normal again, even if it’s just for an hour.”

Lana sighed, quieting her voice. “You remember her that night after she found out she was pregnant. She shattered. She thought she was going to do this with someone by her side. And even now, she hasn’t let herself be happy, not really. What if she starts hoping again? What if she sees Chan as a fix, as comfort, and then it goes wrong?”

Jia frowned, but her gaze shifted back to you.

You were resting your chin on your hand, eyes locked on Chan, laughing again at something he said. You looked… lighter. Like someone had finally taken a backpack off your shoulders.

“I get it,” Jia said softly. “But sometimes it’s not about what might go wrong. Sometimes people just need to feel something good before they fall apart again.”

Lana didn’t respond. She just nodded slowly, her arms still crossed, but her eyes stayed on you.

Fifteen minutes later, the four of you exited the café together, the late morning sun spilling over the street. The air smelled like strawberries and warm bread, thanks to the farmers market set up just around the corner. You turned your head at the scent, curiosity blinking in your eyes.

“Hey,” Jia said brightly, pretending she hadn’t just orchestrated your emotional healing. “Why don’t we walk the market for a bit? It’s nice out.”

Chan glanced at you, his hands casually stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. “Yeah? Up for it?”

You nodded. “I could use the walk.”

“Pregnancy-friendly pace,” Lana added quickly, ever the protector.

“Obviously,” Chan said with a small smile.

The four of you wandered into the hum of the market, past flower stands, stalls full of honey jars, baskets of citrus and summer tomatoes. You and Chan naturally fell behind, veering slightly into your own space as Jia and Lana moved ahead.

Chan told you about the time he accidentally joined the wrong university club and ended up on a competitive rowing team for a semester without realizing it. About the hostel he lived in that turned out to be a rebranded former psychiatric facility. About the tiny restaurant he worked at on weekends that had a cat as the official “manager.”

He told you about homesickness. About how certain days would feel longer than others, and how he’d sit at the edge of his bed and think of home and sometimes that meant a place, but more often it meant people.

It meant you.

You told him about how quiet things had become lately. How you’d taken up journaling again, mostly to try and remember who you were. How you sometimes put your hand on your stomach at night and talked to the baby even though you weren’t sure if they could really hear you. How Jia and Lana had kept you grounded when you couldn’t see past your own fog.

But you didn’t talk about Jisung.

You didn’t need to.

Chan didn’t ask about the father. He didn’t need that context to care.

Instead, as you both slowed at a stand selling little handmade toys, he asked something else.

“Have you thought of names yet?”

You looked at him, surprised. “Kind of… Nothing set in stone.”

He tilted his head. “Wanna tell me?”

You hesitated. “Promise not to laugh?”

Chan held up a hand solemnly. “Swear on the ghost cat manager.”

You smiled again. “For a girl… I really like Ari. And for a boy… maybe Leo.”

“Ari,” he repeated softly. “Leo. I like those.”

You looked down at your stomach, then back up at him. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

“Because I asked,” he said simply. “And because you’re allowed to tell me. You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

That made your eyes sting, unexpectedly. The words were too kind, too easy. You weren’t used to someone offering comfort without strings. Without history. Without expectation.

Just care.

And when he smiled at you again, you believed it.

You felt like someone again. Not a burden. Not a story to explain. Not just a woman waiting for a baby to arrive or a ghost of someone’s past.

Just… you.

And in that moment, under the sun, surrounded by flowers and laughter and warmth, you realized maybe just maybe you could breathe again.

Jisung had forgotten what quiet felt like.

Not the kind of quiet where everything was still, peaceful. No, this was the kind that rang in your ears. A silence so loud it made you clench your jaw without realizing. It had followed him like a shadow since the breakup, lurking in the corners of his apartment, in the spaces between rehearsals, inside his chest when he tried to sleep.

He thought he was finally past it. Past you.

It had been six months. Six months of distraction and denial. Six months of forcing his focus into studio sessions and interviews. Six months of telling himself that he hadn’t needed you in the first place, that wanting something different wasn’t a crime.

But then he saw the photo.

You. Laughing.

Leaning into another man’s shoulder, someone unfamiliar. Someone he couldn’t recognize. The post was from Jia’s account, just a regular scroll moment that hit harder than it should’ve. His thumb hovered over the screen. He’d stopped breathing for a second.

You looked so… okay.

That was what struck him the most.

You looked healed. Soft. Effortlessly content. The man beside you wasn’t even touching you, but it was the way you leaned toward him. The comfort in your posture. The way your eyes crinkled when you smiled.

Jisung had stared at the picture until his vision blurred.

He wondered if you were moving on, if you had someone else, if you were that carefree with someone else and that maybe that letter had never been about coming back. Maybe it had been about leaving for good.

The possibility made his stomach twist.

He sat down at his desk. The drawer was already open a crack. Just wide enough to reveal the corner of the envelope.

His hand hovered over it.

Six months.

What if he’d missed something important?

The image of your face flashed in his mind again, the smile that wasn't his anymore. The softness in your eyes that had once only been meant for him.

And then, without warning, that sick feeling rose again, sharp, bitter, ugly. What if it wasn’t something he wanted to read? What if it was about the new guy? Or worse, what if it was closure?

He could barely breathe.

“I’ve always wanted a family.”

It echoed in his head. Quiet, wistful. It had been one of your first deep conversations. You’d looked at him like he was the future you’d been planning for since you were a little girl. And he’d brushed it off with a joke, even though part of him knew, knew you meant every word.

And he hadn’t listened.

He rubbed his face with both hands.

He’d been trying so hard to be okay, to let it go. But now all the pieces were coming together in his head, twisting into something heavy. The sickness you mentioned to your friends online. The way Jia and Lana stopped posting about you. The letter. The vanishing act.

The man in the picture.

And that look on your face.

He thought about what it meant.

What it could mean.

And slowly, like a creeping storm, one horrible, world-shifting thought started to root itself in his chest.

What if the letter wasn’t about getting back together?

What if the letter was about the family he never wanted and you were giving it to someone else now?

He stood up so fast the chair scraped the floor.

His heart thundered.

The letter was still unopened. Still waiting. Still sealed.

But it didn’t feel like it was waiting for him anymore.

The morning air was crisp, just cold enough to bite at his fingertips as he tucked them deeper into his jacket pockets. Jisung had barely slept the night before. Again. Something about the silence in his apartment felt louder than usual lately. He’d left early, headphones in, cap low over his face, hood up. Just another early morning walk to the company, hoping maybe the movement would shake the insomnia out of his bones.

He was halfway down the street, eyes fixed on the pavement, when he heard it.

A laugh.

But not just any laugh.

Your laugh.

For a split second, he froze mid-step. His heart stuttered. He thought he was imagining it. It was familiar in a way that twisted his insides, light, effortless, like wind chimes in spring. It was the laugh he used to live for. The one he hadn’t heard in six months.

It echoed again, closer this time.

He turned instinctively, almost violently, pulling his headphones out and scanning the street behind him. His pulse shot up as his eyes locked on the source.

And there you were.

Standing just a few meters away. Real. Laughing, radiant, glowing in the soft morning sun and unmistakably, visibly pregnant.

Jisung’s breath caught in his throat.

You weren’t alone.

The man beside you, the same one from the picture stood close, one hand resting at the small of your back. He was smiling too, looking at you with the kind of tenderness that made Jisung’s fists clench.

You were leaning toward him, hand protectively on your belly, like the whole world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

And it hit Jisung like a truck.

Not only had you moved on… you had started the family he never wanted. With someone else.

Someone who wasn’t him.

Something cracked deep in his chest.

It felt like betrayal. Like acid and broken glass.

You had left him and this was why?

You wanted a family so badly you found someone else who would give it to you?

His vision tunneled. He was walking before he even registered his feet moving.

Rage. That’s all it was now. Rage that clawed at his skin. Rage that you had laughed like that, that laugh for someone else. That this stranger had touched you in a way that had once belonged to him. That you had trusted someone else with that part of you. With your future.

He didn’t even know what he was going to say. Didn’t care.

All he knew was that he needed answers.

Jisung stopped in front of you, chest heaving, eyes narrowed beneath his cap.

You froze instantly, the color draining from your face the moment you saw him.

The man beside you shifted immediately, subtly protective, arm tightening at your back as he assessed Jisung.

For a second, no one said anything.

You stared at each other.

The tension was unbearable like a rubber band pulled too tight.

You looked tired. Paler. But still you. Still the woman who once laid beside him in bed whispering sweet nothings. Still the woman who broke his heart when she said “you can’t love me if you don’t want my future.”

But now, your eyes weren’t soft. They were sharp. Furious.

The same fury he remembered from your worst fights. The kind that made your voice shake, not from fear, but from pain.

“What the hell do you want?” you said first, voice quiet but hard, defensive.

Jisung’s hands twitched at his sides. “That’s funny. You’re asking me that?”

Your mouth pulled tight. “I have nothing to say to you.”

His voice rose before he could stop it. “No? Nothing at all? Not even a heads-up that you’re carrying his kid now?”

The stranger tensed, but didn’t speak. You shot him a glance, placing a hand gently on his arm to stop him. He backed off slightly, but he didn’t move far.

“It’s none of your business,” you said, teeth gritted.

“I was your business,” Jisung snapped, voice cracking. “You left me—just to turn around and give everything I couldn’t to someone else?”

Your eyes blazed. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” He gestured to your stomach. “Looks pretty damn obvious to me.”

You inhaled sharply, chest rising, as if trying to calm the storm inside you.

“I’m not doing this here,” you said coldly.

“Then where?” he hissed. “When were you going to say anything? Or were you just going to play happy family and pretend I never—”

“Stop,” you snapped, voice shaking now.

He faltered. The venom in your voice hit him like a slap.

“Just… stop.” You shook your head. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to disappear and then show up six months later acting like I owe you an explanation.”

“I didn’t disappear—you left—!”

“Because you made it clear you didn’t want what I did!” you shouted now, and people were starting to glance over from across the street.

Your hand was on your stomach again, protective, trembling.

“I begged you to see the future I wanted. And you couldn’t. You wouldn’t. So don’t come here now trying to rewrite the story.”

Jisung’s throat tightened. His anger was bleeding into something else, confusion, desperation. Doubt.

You stared him down, eyes full of heartbreak and steel.

“Stay away from me,” you said, voice low and final.

You turned without another word. The man beside you didn’t look at Jisung, just kept a steady hand on your back as he helped you walk away.

Jisung didn’t follow.

He stood there, rooted to the sidewalk, heart hammering in his chest, ears ringing.

You didn’t mention the letter.

You didn’t say anything about the truth he had ignored.

And he still had no idea what he had missed.

All he knew now was this:

You had moved on.

And he… was still standing in the wreckage of what he couldn’t give you.

You hadn’t slept well the night before. Again.

At six months pregnant, your body was exhausted all the time, your back ached, your feet throbbed, and no matter how many pillows you arranged around yourself, you could never get comfortable enough to rest. But today, something felt… okay. Maybe not good, but manageable. The sun was peeking through the curtains when you felt a small flutter inside your belly, a gentle reminder that you weren’t alone.

You smiled softly, your hand moving instinctively to rest over the small bump. It had grown noticeably in the last few weeks. Strangers had started to offer you their seat, shopkeepers smiled a little more gently. It felt surreal, this thing you had always wanted, happening now, just not in the way you imagined.

You were still thinking about that when Chan texted you.

Chan: You up for a walk this morning? There’s a little bakery I want to show you. My treat if you let me win the who-pays war today.

You had chuckled at that. His texts were always light, warm, full of memories you hadn’t realized you missed. So you texted back:

Y/n: You’re on. I still say you cheat when you distract me at the register.

You met outside your place, and he greeted you with that big, boyish smile you remembered from high school. He asked how you slept, how you were feeling, how your cravings were, and he didn’t even flinch when you joked about the weird food combinations you’d been eating lately.

The walk was easy. Gentle. The kind of peaceful you hadn’t felt in a long time. Chan was telling you about this ridiculous story from his last few months in Australia, something about a bird, a tourist trap, and his friend almost getting chased by a kangaroo and you were laughing. Not the polite kind of laugh you’d been forcing around others lately, but the real kind that made your cheeks ache.

It felt good. Almost normal.

You reached the bakery and he told you to pick anything you wanted. You eyed the warm pastries behind the glass and finally settled on a croissant and a hot chocolate. He tried to sneakily pay for it while you were busy looking at cookies. You caught him, of course, and the two of you bickered playfully at the counter, your laughter bouncing off the walls of the quiet little shop.

“I swear you’re worse than my grandma,” you teased as you walked out, bag in one hand, and your warm drink in the other.

“Well, she is a lovely woman,” he grinned. “Smart too.”

You rolled your eyes, and just as you were about to say something else—

You heard your name.

That voice.

That damn voice.

Your body went cold.

It felt like the sidewalk shifted beneath your feet.

You turned around slowly, your stomach twisting as you saw him.

Jisung.

It felt like the air had been sucked out of your lungs.

You hadn’t seen him in six months, not since you dropped the letter under his door. Not since you waited days, then weeks, and finally months for a reply that never came.

And yet here he was. Storming toward you, fire in his eyes and tension in every step. Your heart pounded so loud you could barely hear anything else.

He looked thinner. Harsher. The softness in his face, the one you used to touch so lovingly was replaced with tight lines and something bitter.

Then his eyes dropped to your stomach.

And you saw it.

The flicker of realization.

He said your name again. Sharper this time. Full of something ugly and raw.

The confrontation happened in a blur after that. Words thrown like knives, his accusations loud and cutting. Accusing you of moving on, of starting a family with someone else.

You hadn’t even told him it was his.

You didn’t want to.

Not like this.

Because he didn’t deserve to know, not after months of silence, after choosing to ignore your letter, after making you believe you and your baby weren’t worth a single word.

The worst part? He looked like he hated you. Like your happiness was an offense. Like your child was some betrayal.

And you hated yourself a little for still caring what that look meant.

You didn’t answer most of what he said. You couldn’t. The anger inside you was too heavy, too dangerous to let loose. You told him to stay away from you. To leave you alone.

And you meant it.

When you turned around, Chan’s hand found the small of your back again, steady and warm, and you let yourself lean into it, even if just slightly.

You didn’t look back at Jisung. You didn’t have to.

Because if you did, you knew it would break you.

You walked for what felt like forever. Past the bakery, past the quiet street, into a shaded area just outside the little market. The adrenaline had worn off, and you were suddenly so tired.

Your steps slowed, and Chan noticed immediately.

He gently tugged at your arm to stop. “Hey,” he said softly. “Are you okay?”

Your lip trembled.

And for a moment, you tried to lie. To nod. To say you were fine.

But then the tears came.

Without warning.

You dropped your head, unable to hold it in anymore.

Chan didn’t say anything. He just stepped closer and wrapped his arms around you carefully, protectively.

You cried harder than you had in weeks. Into his chest, into the quiet morning air.

All the pain. The heartbreak. The fury. The sadness.

The betrayal of being forgotten.

The fear of being a single mother.

The ache of still loving someone who had let you go.

You clung to Chan like he was the only steady thing in your world.

And in that moment, maybe he was.

He rubbed your back gently. Didn’t rush you. Didn’t ask you to explain.

He just held you. Like you needed.

Like you deserved.

Like Jisung never did.

It took a while for you to calm down after the confrontation. Your tears had stained the front of Chan’s shirt, but he didn’t seem to care, he just kept holding you gently, rubbing slow circles along your back, quietly murmuring, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” like he was trying to patch over the cracks in your heart one word at a time.

Once your breathing evened out, and your tears slowed into hiccups, Chan finally pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes warm and sincere.

“You ready to go home?” he asked, his voice soft, without a trace of pressure.

You nodded, but you were still silent. Raw. Shaken.

He didn’t push you to talk. He didn’t ask what had happened, even though you knew he had his guesses. That restraint, his patience made your throat close up with a fresh wave of emotion.

The walk to your apartment was quiet. Not awkward, not stiff, just comfortable silence. A kind of silence you could sit in without feeling like you had to perform or explain or fix anything. Chan carried your little bakery bag in one hand and kept the other gently on your back, his fingers barely brushing the fabric of your dress near your shoulder blade. Just enough to let you know he was still there. Still with you.

When you reached your building, he held the door open, then helped you up the steps when your ankles threatened to protest. Once you were inside, he toed off his shoes at the entrance like he used to back in high school when he came over to study or hang out, only this time, the setting was so different.

Chan didn’t seem to mind.

He followed you in, still holding the bag of treats.

“I still paid,” he said casually, turning just slightly to glance at you over his shoulder with a teasing smile.

You blinked, caught off guard.

And then… you laughed.

Just a little.

Soft and tired, but real.

You reached out and playfully swatted his arm. “You’re so annoying,” you muttered, your voice still raspy from crying.

“I’ve been told,” he said, beaming now, clearly proud of himself.

You padded over to the couch and eased yourself down, one hand resting instinctively on your belly. Chan followed, setting the bag down on the coffee table. Then, without asking, he sat down beside you, close enough that his warmth pressed into your side, but not close enough to make you feel crowded.

You leaned your head on the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling for a while. There was a dull ache behind your eyes. Your body was tired. Your heart was even more tired.

He nudged your shoulder gently. “Want to tell me what happened?”

You exhaled slowly. “Jisung.”

That was all you needed to say.

He was quiet for a moment. And then, “Thought so.”

You turned your head slightly to look at him.

“Yeah?”

Chan nodded. “The way he looked at you… back there. Like he was about to explode. I don’t know what happened between you two, but... he doesn’t look like someone who’s over you.”

You scoffed. “He’s the one who left.”

Chan frowned but didn’t comment right away. Instead, he leaned forward, grabbing the croissant from the bakery bag and tearing off a piece. “Well,” he said after a beat, “you don’t need someone who can’t see what’s right in front of them. Especially not now.”

You looked down at your stomach.

The guilt crept in again, slowly.

The heaviness of everything. The choice you made. The silence after the letter. The confrontation that left you shattered all over again.

“I didn’t tell him,” you said, your voice so quiet it was almost a whisper.

Chan looked over.

“About the baby,” you clarified. “I sent him a letter... six months ago. Told him everything. That I didn’t expect anything from him. That if he didn’t want to reach out, I’d leave him alone. He never said anything. Never texted. Never called. Never replied.”

You could see the realization settle in Chan’s expression, how all the pieces clicked into place.

“I thought he made his choice,” you said softly. “So I made mine.”

He didn’t try to justify Jisung’s silence. Didn’t say maybe he didn’t read it. Maybe he didn’t know.

Because that didn’t matter. Not now.

Chan nodded slowly and offered you the other half of the croissant. You took it with a shaky breath, your fingers brushing his.

“You did the right thing,” he said. “You gave him a chance. He chose to ignore it. That’s on him.”

You looked at him. At this person who had been absent from your life for years, only to come back like no time had passed so seamlessly, so naturally. You weren’t in love with him. Not now. But there was still something safe about being with him. Something soft and familiar. Something you hadn’t realized you needed.

And when he smiled at you again, nudging your elbow with his, you let yourself lean into him just a little more.

He made you feel like you weren’t broken.

Like this new version of you, mother-to-be, heartbroken, healing was still worthy of comfort.

Still worthy of being held.

Still worthy of being chosen.

It had been hours since he saw you.

Hours since your laugh pierced through the city noise like a haunting melody he wasn’t supposed to hear anymore.

But it was still echoing.

Jisung had barely made it home, barely remembered how he got there, just that he’d walked, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white. His heart had been pounding in his ears. Rage, confusion, betrayal, every emotion bleeding into the next until he could barely breathe through the noise.

You were pregnant.

And not just pregnant, you were glowing, smiling, leaning into that guy like he was your anchor. Like you were his. Like the future you once begged Jisung for had already found its way to someone else’s arms.

And all he could think about was how cruel it all felt. How fast it seemed like you had moved on. How wrong it looked for someone else to hold your back like that when that used to be his place.

He didn’t bother turning on the lights when he stumbled into his apartment. The air was cold, untouched. Work, studio, drinking, studio again. That was his pattern now, suffocating himself with anything that could drown out the silence you left behind.

But tonight was different.

Tonight, your laughter followed him. Your eyes. Your voice when you told him to stay away. The venom in it. The hurt.

He collapsed into the armchair near the window, his coat still on, cap still tugged low over his head like he was still out there hiding. With a groan, he reached for the half-empty bottle of whiskey on the floor beside him. No glass this time. Just desperate gulps from the bottle itself, the burn in his throat not nearly enough to mask the ache behind his ribs.

He barely noticed when his hand moved on its own.

Opened the drawer.

Pulled out the envelope.

The envelope you’d left nearly six months ago.

He stared at it, the way he had a hundred times before, only now it looked like a mockery. Like a ghost of something he didn’t want to admit he’d left unread out of sheer spite. It had his name on it, in your handwriting. Soft, familiar.

For a moment, his hand trembled.

He could read it.

He could finally read it.

But then his mind flashed back to earlier.

The way that guy leaned close when you laughed like it was his favorite sound. The way you looked like everything Jisung had never been enough for.

And then came the anger.

All-consuming. Reckless. Bitter.

His lips curled into something half-snarled, half-exhausted.

“She didn’t even wait,” he muttered, the words slurring slightly. “Just threw us away like it was nothing.”

He didn’t care if it wasn’t true.

He needed it to be true.

Because the alternative? That you had waited. That maybe you'd told him something important in this very letter, that he’d ignored something that mattered, that affected both of you…

No.

He couldn’t think about that.

Couldn’t handle it.

So before his hands could betray him and open the letter, Jisung crushed it in his fist.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he tore it in half.

The sound of ripping paper was louder than it should’ve been in the silence of his apartment.

Once.

Twice.

Three times, until it was nothing but scraps in his lap, your handwriting torn down the middle, illegible, unreadable.

And only when he’d destroyed it completely, only when there was no going back did he feel something crack inside him.

The sound that left his throat was ugly.

Somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

He didn’t know why he was crying.

He didn’t even feel like he was crying.

But the tears slipped down anyway, hot and fast, tracking along his cheeks as he tipped back another gulp of whiskey and let his head fall into his hands.

You were gone.

You had moved on.

And now, he had destroyed the only piece of you left that might’ve explained why it all ended the way it did.

And still… he didn’t know the truth.

Still, he was blind to everything except the ache of missing you and the poison of thinking you belonged to someone else now.

He sat like that for a long time.

The ripped letter pieces scattered at his feet like confetti at a funeral, the bottle nearly empty in his hand, and his heart sinking deeper into a guilt he didn’t yet understand.

Because the truth, the real truth was gone now.

And he had no one to blame but himself.

masterlist.

❌proofread

[the letter taglist: @kenqki @mbioooo0000 @bearseuming @alisonyus @justjxnniie @chungdol @captainchrisstan @stilesks @banana-bread-thread @linosgrape @chaosandcandies @energyjuice4life @st4rv3lly @hanniebunch @nchhuhi @changbin-wife @felixleftchickennugget @psychobitchsthings @puppymsworld @silly250 @uyyoyyu @beppybeesnuggets ..]

741 notes · View notes

strayflowersstarsandlove · 4 months ago

Text

random dad!skz fluff with their babies🧸💌

did somebody say 💖🧁self indulgent content🧁💖 ? anyhowwwww i NEED lee minho and han jisung on the return of Superman thanks that's all bye

✨dad!skz masterlist

✨main masterlist

✨ taglist @milf-ivy @minluvly. @nervousbasementtimemachine @m1lfl0v3r4l1fe @atiana1996 @dreamerwasfound @staydoida1 @chlodavids @ivyreadsstuff @sapphirewaves @hannahhhhs-things @skzwife

🖤hyung line🖤

🖤maknae line🖤

895 notes · View notes

ivyyisbored22 · 2 months ago

Text

𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲—𝘉𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘹 (𝘧𝘦𝘮) 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

A Stray Kids drabble

Synopsis: Just thinking about Dad Chan...

Warnings: Mention of a needle. Baby shots, soft Chan, fluff.

Note: I came across so many baby reels on Instagram and so well, I wanted to write something quickly.

If this isn't your thing, you're more than welcome to skip it. Reblogs, likes, comments and feedbacks are always appreciated.

ɪ'ᴠᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴏꜰ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ɪᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪʟʟɪᴏɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ ʙᴜᴛ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ꜱᴘᴏᴛ ᴀ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴡʜᴇʀᴇ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ʟᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴡ.

Word count: 0.7k

𝑬𝑵𝑱𝑶𝒀!

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Just thinking about Dad Chan...

The nursery was looming with the lingering scent of baby lotion and the cute giggles of your 6 month old baby, as you got her dressed for her check up. She was looking up at you with a huge gummy smile, her little hands wiggling in the air.

"Are you excited to see the doctor?" You cooed and the baby scrunched her little nose, "Oh, you are? Aren't you a brave girl?"

As you fastened the tiny buttons on her dress, the soft sound of footsteps approached the nursery.

Chan peeked in, hair slightly tousled from the morning rush, eyes immediately finding his little girl. His lips curled into a fond smile as he bent beside you, pressing a kiss to your temple and her chubby cheek.

“Good morning, princess,” he murmured, running his fingers through her wispy baby hair. “Are you ready?”

Your baby let out a happy squeal, her hands patting Chan’s face with newfound excitement. Chan smiled as he scooped the baby in his arms and walked to the car as you grabbed your bag and the essentials you might need.

At the doctor’s office, your baby sat on Chan’s lap, clapping her hands at the colorful art and posters decorating the walls. Chan was tapping his leg on the floor making her gently bounce up and down, giggling.

When the doctor finally entered, he gave you both a warm smile. “She’s growing beautifully. Everything looks perfect,” he said, flipping through the chart.

Chan sighed in relief—until the doctor added, “Alright, we’ll go ahead with her vaccination today.”

Chan stiffened instantly, arms tightening around your daughter. “H-hold on,” he stammered, his voice nearly cracking. “Does she have to?”

You gave him a deadpan look, but the doctor gave a gentle smile. "Of course but it's just a shot. She’ll be fine, don't worry.”

But Chan wasn’t convinced. As the nurse prepped the syringe, he looked like he was physically restraining himself from grabbing his baby and bolting out of the office.

“She’s so tiny,” he whispered, eyes darting between you and the nurse. “Can’t we—I don’t know—wait until she’s, like, ten?”

Before you could answer, the nurse instructed Chan to hold your daughter still. With heartbreaking trust, she looked up at her father, smiling with pure innocence, completely unaware of what was coming.

Then the shot happened.

The moment the needle pricked her chubby thigh, your baby’s face crumpled, her joyful babbling instantly turning into a loud wail.

Chan’s entire body tensed and his heart visibly shattered. “Oh my God, baby, I’m so sorry,” he blurted, his voice cracking as if he was the one in pain.

"All done," the nurse announced, placing a cute bandaid on her leg.

He kissed her forehead and cheeks frantically, his eyes welling up. “I’m so sorry, princess. Daddy didn't want this either.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose inhaling deeply. “Chan, breathe.”

But it was useless—he was already lost to his sorrow, whispering apologies into her tiny curls while she sniffled against his chest. The doctor reassured him that she’d be fine in a few minutes, but Chan was having none of it.

While you let your husband walk around the office trying to soothe the baby, you took her report card from the doctor, bidding a warm goodbye to him and the nurse, walking towards Chan who was now outside the room.

Once you were back in the car, your baby had already calmed down, sucking on her fingers while making soft cooing noises as Chan placed her on the car seat.

Chan, on the other hand, was still distraught, climbing into the driver's side and rested his head against the steering wheel. “That was the worst experience of my life.”

You reached over, rubbing his back soothingly. “Honey, she’s literally fine.”

He lifted his head to glare at you, eyes red-rimmed and tears brimming his long lashes. “She cried. Did you not hear that? I’m traumatized.”

Suppressing a laugh, you leaned over, pressing your lips on his softly. “You’re such a good dad,” you murmured against him. “She’s very lucky to have you hubby.”

Chan sighed heavily but melted into your touch, glancing back at the rearview mirror where your daughter was already dozing off.

“Yeah,” he muttered, still pouting. “But she’s never getting another shot again.”

Enjoyed this drabble? Consider checking my masterlist for more. Requests? Check 𝚁𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 (& 𝚁𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚜)

Taglist: @velvetmoonlght @de-uns-tempos-pra-ca @greyyeti

If you want to be added to the taglist, drop a comment <3 (If I missed someone please lmk)

Thank you for reading!

xx,

Ivyy

798 notes · View notes

boyfiechan · 1 month ago

Text

Boyfiechan's Masterlist

Welcome to the mess. Read responsibly.

Small Bites, 3k words or less

[Unsent] Genre: smut Warnings: Explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, suggestive texting, video tease, masturbation (implied), alcohol mention, heavy yearning, vivid imagery, light dom!Chan energy, soft exhibitionism. ✦ Summary: The one where he is tipsy and lonely and absolutely down bad. → [Read here]

[Wonderer] Genre: smut Warnings: Explicit sexual content, voyeurism, masturbation, AFAB reader, unprotected sex (mentioned), praise kink, implied Chan x Reader, third-party listening, shared dorm setting, creaking beds, filthy imagination, jealousy, soft obsession, and the aftermath of overhearing something you shouldn't. ✦ Summary: The one where he hears everything through the thin dorm walls—and can’t help but touch himself to the sound of you and his hyung falling apart. → [Read here]

[Wishful] Genre: smut Warnings: Explicit sexual content, masturbation, AFAB reader (implied), mutual pining, voyeuristic tone (reader not present but imagined), oral sex (imagined), fingering (imagined), unprotected sex (imagined), creampie (imagined), dirty talk (internal monologue), and intense longing fueled by unresolved sexual tension. ✦ Summary: The one where he jerks off in the shower thinking about everything he hasn't done to you yet. → [Read here]

[Easier] Genre: smut Warnings: Explicit sexual content, mutual masturbation (implied over the phone), AFAB reader (implied), vivid sexual fantasy, emotional vulnerability in a sexual context, tension-heavy atmosphere, and intense longing fueled by physical and emotional denial. ✦ Summary: The one where neither of you stops, even though you should. → [Read here]

[Threshold] Genre: smut Warnings: Explicit language, emotional denial, intense sexual fixation, masturbation, voyeurism (semi-consensual), unresolved tension, friends with benefits, pining so sharp it bleeds, possessive thoughts, explicit language, smut, aching slow-burn. ✦ Summary: The one where he's just your friend, but his body doesn’t know the difference. → [Read here]

[Bloom] Genre: fluff Warnings: Dad!Chan agenda caught up to me, I guess. Soft boy mornings, slow tenderness, and the quiet kind of love that breaks you open. ✦ Summary: The one where he holds your daughter like a lullaby. → [Read here]

Full Course, the longer things

[What You're Playing For] Genre: smut Warnings: Explicit sexual content, rough sex, dominance, shower sex, bruising, possessiveness, emotional intensity, overstimulation, creampie, emotional tension, unspoken feelings, slow emotional unraveling, and the constant threat of what happens after this? ✦ Summary: The one where the water’s hot, but he is hotter. → [Read here]

[Softest Ruin] Genre: smut Warnings: Explicit sexual content, graphic and mature language, reader described as AFAB, rough unprotected sex, fingering, dry humping, creampie, slight cum-play, semi-public setting, dominance and control dynamics, light overstimulation, slight oral fixation, dirty talk, light possessive behavior. ✦ Summary: The one where the song won’t come together, but you might. → [Read here]

[Undone] Genre: smut, angst Warnings: Explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, strong language, fingering, light overstimulation, unprotected sex, mentions of guns and wounds.. Emotional tension so thick you could slice it with a butter knife. Chan is scary but lowkey terrified. you are not helping either and he gets... a bit mean, be cautious. ✦ Summary: The one where he stayed anyway—because losing you would’ve been worse. → [Read here]

[21 Questions] Genre: smut Warnings: AFAB reader, explicit sexual content, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, face riding, dry humping, dirty talk, question-based escalation, creampie. ✦ Summary: The one where your hot one-night stand gets trapped inside with you during a storm. → [Read here]

[Between Blinds] Genre: smut Warnings: Male voyeur, AFAB reader, explicit sexual content, established relationship (Chan x Reader), implied Jisung x Reader, implied Chan x Jisung, implied threesome, masturbation (male), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, obsessive thoughts, oral sex (M&F receiving), edging, nipple sucking, overstimulation, creampie, jealousy, possessive thoughts, Jisung is both into you and Chan but no direct mention of his sexuality. ✦ Summary: The one where you and your boyfriend move into the apartment across from a stranger who watches you like you're his religion. → [Read here]

[Party Favor] Genre: smut Warnings: AFAB reader, best friends to lovers, a hell lot of kissing, mutual pining, aphrodisiac use, mentions of drinking, explicit sexual content, sexy card games, fingering, use of pet names (baby), dry humping, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, use of warming gel and sensation enhancers, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), dirty talk, mention of sex toys, multiple orgasms, creampie, use of handcuffs, banter during sex, chaotic horniness. ✦ Summary: The one where you're just two responsible adults planning your best friends’ joint bachelor/bachelorette party—until the box of sexy party supplies arrives and things spiral wildly out of hand. → [Read here]

Fake Texts

[Boyfriend!Chan as pinterest text messages, the sweet version] Genre: fluff Warnings: AFAB reader, cursing. → [Read here]

[Boyfriend!Chan as pinterest text messages, the spicy version] Genre: fluff Warnings: AFAB reader, cursing, explicit language and suggestive themes. → [Read here]

[I keep thinking about kissing you and it's messing me up] Genre: angst Warnings: Cursing, suggestive content, angst. → [Read here]

[My shirt, my girl] Genre: smut Warnings: Mature language, suggestive content. → [Read here]

[04:25am] Genre: angst Warnings: Suggestive content, angst, heartbreak. → [Read here]

[Mine or yours?] Genre: between fluff and smut Warnings: Suggestive content. → [Read here]

[Random texts collection #1, FWB!Chan] Genre: mostly smut/suggestive Warnings: Mature language, suggestive content. → [Read here]

[Random texts collection #2, Husband!Chan] Genre: smut/suggestive, fluff Warnings: Mature language, suggestive content. → [Read here]

[Random texts collection #3, Ex!Chan] Genre: suggestive, angst Warnings: Suggestive content. → [Read here]

[Random texts collection #4, more Ex!Chan] Genre: suggestive, angst Warnings: Cursing, suggestive content. → [Read here]

Prompt List & Requests, access prompts here

[Request #1] Genre: angst, fluff Warnings: Heavy emotional tension, mutual pining, unresolved feelings, sudden confession, intense vulnerability, repressed love, fear of rejection, emotional breakdown, implied friends-to-lovers, cursing. ✦ Prompt choice: "Tell me to stop. Tell me to stop, please, or I won't be able to." → [Read here]

[Request #2] Genre: smut Warnings: Explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, established relationship, emotional vulnerability, soft dom!Chan, shower intimacy, bath-time caretaking, fingering (f receiving), oral implications, unprotected sex, creampie, body worship, aftercare and the need for comfort turning into something more. ✦ Prompt choice: "Lift your hips for me, love." → [Read here]

[Request #3] Genre: smut Warnings: Explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, unprotected sex (implied) soft dominance, praise kink, body worship, emotional vulnerability, possessive undertones, creampie (implied). ✦ Prompt choice: “I’ve never wanted to fuck you more.” → [Read here]

[Request #4] Genre: smut Warnings: Explicit sexual content, graphic language, rough handjob, biting, bruising, hair pulling, dominance and control dynamics, pain kink, overstimulation, marking, begging, possessive behavior, emotional vulnerability, intense power imbalance, nonverbal consent, crying during sex. ✦ Summary: The one where he finds out about his pain kink. → [Read here]

[Request #5] Genre: smut Warnings: Explicit sexual content, oral sex (deepthroating, facefucking), overstimulation, breathplay (implied choking/throatfucking), dominance and submission, power imbalance, hair pulling and restraint, spit, saliva, and cum play (very messy), verbal degradation mixed with praise, possessiveness and marking behavior, and tears/watery eyes from gag reflex. ✦ Summary: The one where he trains you to take him well. → [Read here]

Others

[Chan's NSFW Alphabet] Genre: smut Warnings: This piece contains explicit sexual content, suggestive themes, and mature language. → [Read here]

[Random thought collection #01] Genre: smut Warnings: Explicit sexual content, AFAB reader, strong language, vocal kink, praise kink, fingering, soft dom!Chan, unprotected sex, consent emphasized throughout, light overstimulation. ✦ Summary: I keep thinking about this post lately and honestly, Chan talking you through it sounds about right. → [Read here]

[Random thought collection #02] Genre: smut Warnings: This piece contains explicit sexual content, suggestive themes, and mature language. ✦ Summary: Just a bunch of actual random stuff. → [Read here]

[Random thought collection #03] Genre: fluff Warnings: Light suggestive content. ✦ Summary: Bang Chan vs Chan vs Channie vs Christopher vs Chris → [Read here]

Up Next/WIPs

→ Between Blinds… or the one where you and your boyfriend move into the apartment across from a stranger who watches you like you're his religion.

→ Party Favor… or the one where you're just two responsible adults planning your best friends’ joint bachelor/bachelorette party—until the box of sexy party supplies arrives and things spiral wildly out of hand.

Disclaimer

All works are fictional and for entertainment purposes only. Minors, please do not interact with explicit content. Tags and warnings are listed for your safety — read responsibly and take care of yourself.

335 notes · View notes

strayingawayy · 4 months ago

Text

dance class with daddy!

...where your little girl teaches her daddy, the main dancer of one of the biggest kpop groups, how to dance

“you’re doing it wrong!” your daughter shouted, hands on her hips as she glared at minho.

minho, ever the professional, stopped mid-spin, eyes wide. "what do you mean, i’m doing it wrong? i’m literally following you!" he tried to mimic her tiny movements, his arms flailing in all the wrong directions.

“no, daddy! like this!” she spun in a perfect circle, her arms extended gracefully, before stopping to point at him again. “do the feet! the feet!”

minho blinked, clearly confused. “the feet? you didn’t tell me about feet!”

“do the feet!” she demanded, bouncing on the spot, her voice serious like a little dance instructor.

you were on the sidelines, biting back your laughter. minho, the literal main dancer of stray kids, was struggling to keep up with your toddler. it was hilarious.

minho tried again, his feet doing some awkward shuffle. “like this?”

“no! no! you need to do the other feet!” she screeched, pointing at the floor dramatically. “other feet, daddy!”

he froze, looking at you for help. “what other feet?” his voice was desperate, almost pleading for you to intervene.

“i have no idea,” you said, barely containing your laughter. “she changes the choreography every five seconds. just follow her.”

you watched as your daughter stomped over to minho and grabbed his hand, tugging him into position. “now we jump!” she announced proudly, before proceeding to jump up and down in rapid succession.

minho gave you a wide-eyed look, his body already aching from the "dance." “she’s a drill sergeant, not a dance teacher.”

"jump, daddy!" she yelled, practically jumping herself into the air, her little legs barely lifting off the ground. minho sighed, giving a half-hearted jump. “like this?”

“no!” she shouted. “like this!” she then proceeded to twist her body in a way that looked like an interpretive dance move gone wrong.

you were wiping away tears of laughter, watching minho try to follow along. every time he thought he had it, she changed the move. "she’s a genius" you teased.

minho collapsed onto the couch, defeated but amused. "i’m officially her backup dancer."

your daughter, hands on her hips, nodded seriously, as if she were the one making the final judgment. “good job, daddy.”

minho grinned, rubbing his sore arms. “i’m never going to live this down.”

but you knew, as the three of you giggled together, that these were the moments minho would treasure most. no stage, no spotlight—just his little girl and the other feet.

___

@staytilldeath @somedumbthings @itisjustpaula

1K notes · View notes

hyuuukais · 11 months ago

Text

⚝⭒๋࣭ ⭑ SKZ TEXTS ⭑

─── dad!skz x reader

─── random texts w dad!skz

─── warnings : reader + skz called pet names (love, baby, darling), pregnancy

CHAN, MINHO, CHANGBIN

HYUNJIN, HAN, FELIX

SEUNGMIN, JEONGIN

─── notes : happy bday to my dad, who would have been 61 today 💙 i love you and miss you like crazy, but i hope wherever you are now is treating you well and all your health issues have been resolved. i'm gonna cry if i type any more !!! love always, your bean. i hope u guys enjoyed the dad!skz texts <3<3<3 all photos are from pinterest btw!

─── taglist : @chaeryred @toplinelix @channie-143 @staysinbloom

#⚝⭒๋࣭ ⭑ SKZ TEXTS ⭑#dad!skz #dad!stray kids #skz #stray kids #skz texts #skz fake texts #stray kids texts #stray kids fake texts #skz scenarios #skz imagines #skz x reader #stray kids x reader #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios

2K notes · View notes

bbokarimenu · 5 months ago

Text

Heartstrings ❤️‍🩹

pairing: idoldadbangchan! x fem reader!

genre: Angst

warnings: none

an: Love is a journey, not a destination. Thank you for reading! ❤️

Masterlist

The soft hum of the baby monitor on the nightstand was the only sound breaking the stillness of the room. I sat on the edge of our bed, staring at the digital clock glowing 2:37 AM. My chest tightened as I fought the urge to cry.

Bang Chan wasn’t here again.

It had been weeks since he’d had a proper day off, weeks since we’d spent more than a fleeting moment together as a family. He was always working—writing, producing, rehearsing. And while I knew his role as the leader of Stray Kids demanded so much of him, it felt like his role as a father and partner had taken a backseat.

A soft cry crackled through the baby monitor, jolting me out of my thoughts.

“Shh, I’m coming,” I whispered to no one, pulling myself together and heading into the nursery.

Our daughter, Luna, lay in her crib, her tiny face scrunched up as she whimpered. I reached in, scooping her up gently, and began rocking her in my arms.

“It’s okay, sweet girl,” I cooed. “Mommy’s here.”

Her cries subsided into soft sniffles, and I kissed her forehead, inhaling the faint scent of baby powder.

I felt a pang of sadness as I looked down at her. She deserved more than this. More than just me. She deserved her dad too.

The front door creaked open just after 4 AM. I was sitting on the couch, Luna finally asleep in her bassinet beside me.

Chan stepped inside, his shoulders slumped and his hoodie pulled low over his face. He looked exhausted, but when he saw me sitting there, his eyes widened in surprise.

“(Y/N), you’re still awake?”

I nodded, crossing my arms over my chest. “How could I sleep when I don’t even know if you’re coming home anymore?”

He winced, shutting the door quietly behind him. “I’m sorry. Practice ran late, and then I had some things to finish in the studio—”

“It’s always practice or the studio or something else,” I interrupted, my voice trembling with frustration. “Do you even realize how long it’s been since you spent time with us? With her?” I motioned toward the bassinet.

His gaze flickered to Luna, and guilt flashed across his face. “I know. I know I’ve been… absent. But you know how important this is. I’m doing this for us. For her future.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Her future? Chan, she doesn’t need all the money or fame in the world. She needs her dad. I need you.”

“I’m trying,” he said, his voice cracking. “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Are you?” I asked, standing up. “Because it feels like your best is reserved for everyone else but us.”

His shoulders sagged, and he ran a hand through his hair. “What do you want me to do, (Y/N)? Quit? Walk away from everything I’ve worked for?”

“I’m not asking you to quit,” I said, my voice softening. “I’m asking you to find a balance. To make time for the family you chose to have.”

He looked at me, and for a moment, I thought he might argue. But then he nodded, his expression weary. “You’re right. I’ve been… I’ve been failing you. Both of you. I’ll try harder, I promise.”

I wanted to believe him. I really did.

Days turned into weeks, and while Chan did make more of an effort to be present, it still felt like his heart was elsewhere. He’d hold Luna and play with her, but his phone was always nearby, his mind half in another world.

One evening, after putting Luna to bed, I found him in the living room with his laptop open. He was reviewing tracks, his headphones on, completely absorbed.

“Chan,” I said, standing in the doorway.

He didn’t respond.

“Chan,” I said again, louder this time.

He finally looked up, pulling his headphones off. “What’s up?”

I stared at him, my chest tightening. “Is this what it’s always going to be like? You here, but not really here?”

He frowned, closing his laptop. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about us,” I said, stepping closer. “I’m talking about how I feel like I’m raising Luna on my own while you chase this dream that seems more important than we are.”

“That’s not fair,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “You knew what you were signing up for when we started this. You knew my career would demand a lot of me.”

“I didn’t know it would mean losing you,” I shot back, tears spilling over.

His face softened, and he stood, reaching for me. “(Y/N), don’t say that. You haven’t lost me.”

“Haven’t I?” I whispered, pulling away. “Because it feels like I’m standing here begging for scraps of your time, your attention. And I shouldn’t have to beg, Chan. We shouldn’t have to beg.”

He looked at me, pain etched across his face, but he didn’t say anything. And in that silence, I felt my heart break a little more.

That night, I packed a bag for Luna and me.

I didn’t want to leave. I loved Chan more than anything, but I couldn’t keep living like this. I couldn’t keep feeling like we were an afterthought in his life.

When he found me in the nursery, his eyes widened in alarm. “What are you doing?”

“I need some space,” I said, my voice trembling. “I need to figure out what’s best for Luna and me.”

“(Y/N), please,” he said, his voice desperate. “Don’t do this. Don’t leave.”

“I don’t want to,” I admitted, tears streaming down my face. “But I can’t keep waiting for you to choose us.”

He reached for me, his hands trembling. “You don’t have to wait. I’ll do better, I swear. Just don’t go.”

I looked at him, my heart breaking at the sight of his tears. “I love you, Chan. But love isn’t enough if we’re the only ones fighting for this.”

With that, I picked up Luna and walked out the door, leaving behind the man I loved and the life we had built together.

The days that followed were some of the hardest of my life. I stayed with my sister, trying to find clarity amidst the chaos of my emotions.

Chan called and texted every day, apologizing, begging for another chance. I wanted to forgive him, to run back into his arms and pretend everything was okay. But I knew we needed more than just promises.

One evening, about two weeks after I left, there was a knock at the door.

I opened it to find Chan standing there, holding a small bouquet of flowers and a stuffed bunny for Luna. He looked exhausted, but there was a determination in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

I nodded, stepping aside to let him in.

He sat down on the couch, his hands trembling as he set the flowers and toy on the table. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he began. “About us. About everything.”

I sat across from him, waiting.

“You were right,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’ve been so focused on my career that I’ve been neglecting the most important people in my life. And I hate myself for it.”

Tears filled my eyes, but I didn’t say anything.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he continued. “I don’t want to lose our family. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to fix this. To be the husband and father you both deserve.”

“Chan,” I said softly, my voice trembling. “I don’t need perfection. I just need you to try. To really try.”

He reached across the table, taking my hands in his. “I will. I swear, (Y/N). You and Luna are my everything. And I’m going to prove it to you every day.”

Looking into his eyes, I saw the sincerity there. The love. The man I had fallen in love with.

Maybe it wouldn’t be easy. Maybe we had a long road ahead of us. But for the first time in weeks, I felt hope.

And that was enough to take the first step toward healing together.

#kpop imagines #stray kids imagines #bangchan imagines #bang chan angst #dad chan #lee felix fluff #lee know #lee felix #skz x reader #stray kids #skz imagines #bang chan smut #lee felix smut #stray kids smut #skz smut

490 notes · View notes

linoxpudding · 14 days ago

Text

Tiny Tyrants - (Hyung Line)

summary: when your kid says something mean so you text their dad

pairing: dad!skz x mom!reader

genre: fluff, humor

a/n: this was requested ♡

Maknae Line

Dad!SKZ Masterlist

~°~

Bang Chan

Lee Know

Seo Changbin

Hwang Hyunjin

-----------

Permanent Taglist:

@kaiyaba @lov3rachan @pixie-felix @ellemir2404 @willowhanji @skzimagines @wavetohannie @jamroses @vietjeb @kayleefriedchicken @kokinu09 @nightmarenyxx @my-neurodivergent-world @shuuporanglinos @silly250 @notmedina127 @thecutiepieme @stay-tiny-things @inlovewithstraykids @skz-ot8-stay @emilyywhyy @havenwithleeknow @hungryhobbit815 @seungminnieinthebuilding @beabidoobee @geni-627 @ye0lkkot @yaorzu-blog @butterflybananabread @nightshadeblooming @rockstarkkami @finannn @poody1608 @scarlet789 @mbioooo0000 @icannotbelieveit @casperlynn23

Dad!SKZ Taglist:

@butterflydemons

#skz x reader #stray kids fake texts #skz au #skz fake texts #stray kids texts #stray kids #dad!skz #dad!lee know #dad!lee minho #dad!stray kids #dad!bangchan #dad!changbin #dad!hyunjin

972 notes · View notes

4linos · 23 days ago

Text

the letter.

han jisung x fem!reader

synopsis: after a devastating breakup over the future you couldn't agree on, you and jisung are left unraveling in the aftermath. you wanted a family. he wanted freedom.

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, (unplanned) pregnancy, heavy emotional themes, arguments/yelling, exes to ???.

wc: 8729

[the letter part. 2, the letter part. 3]

You’d always known what you wanted. That’s what people said about you “She’s got a good head on her shoulders,” “She’s a planner,” “She knows where she’s going in life.” And maybe you clung to that image a little too tightly, because letting go of your future, of what you thought it should look like felt like losing everything.

So when you told Jisung that night, hands slightly trembling, voice careful, “I want a family,” it wasn’t just an idle thought. It wasn’t a dreamy declaration thrown out over candlelight dinner like some offhand fantasy. It was your truth. Your foundation.

You thought it was a simple conversation, really. Something to talk through. Something couples talked about, planned for. But then he laughed. Not cruelly. Not mockingly. Just a soft, disbelieving chuckle that felt like a bucket of ice water down your spine.

“A family?” he repeated, almost like the word was foreign in his mouth. “Like… kids?”

You blinked. “Yes, Jisung. Kids. A house. A real future.”

He leaned back on the couch, arms crossed loosely, lips pressed into a faint line. You could see the gears turning behind his eyes, could see the way his expression shifted, not into panic exactly, but discomfort. Resistance.

“I thought we were just… living,” he said slowly, cautiously. “You know, taking things day by day.”

You frowned. “It’s been five years, Jisung. How many more years do we need to take before we start talking about what we are?”

He looked away.

And that was the beginning.

You hadn’t meant for it to spiral. But it did. Fast.

“I just don’t think I’m cut out to be a dad,” he admitted after a long silence, his voice small. “I don’t… want that kind of responsibility. I don’t think I ever have.”

You stared at him like he’d slapped you.

“What do you mean you don’t want that kind of responsibility?” your voice came out sharp, slicing. “You knew I wanted this. I’ve always wanted this.”

“I thought maybe you’d change your mind,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

You stood up. “Change my—are you serious right now?”

His eyes flicked up, wide, as if he’d only just realized the weight of what he’d said.

“Why would I change my mind about something like that?” you demanded, anger bubbling beneath your skin. “That’s not some trivial thing, Jisung. That’s not like me saying I want to try a new hairstyle. That’s my future. My whole damn life.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Tried again. “I didn’t know it meant that much to you—”

“Then you don’t know me at all,” you snapped, and you watched as that hit him like a brick wall. Something in his face crumbled.

“You know that’s not fair,” he said, and there was a tremor in his voice. “You know I love you.”

“Then why don’t you want to build a life with me?” Your voice cracked, and you hated it. Hated that the hurt was bleeding through now, that your anger couldn’t keep it at bay anymore.

He stood up too, like he couldn’t take the distance between you anymore. “I do! I do want a life with you, I just—I don’t want it to be tied to some rigid idea of what it’s supposed to look like. Why does it have to be a house and kids? Why can’t it just be us?”

“Because I’m not nineteen anymore, Jisung!” you yelled, and the sound of your voice echoing off the walls startled both of you. “I don’t want to float around hoping that maybe one day you’ll change your mind. I can’t live like that. I want something real. I want stability. Commitment.”

His jaw clenched. “I am committed.”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “No. You’re comfortable. There’s a difference.”

He flinched.

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.

“I can’t believe we’re fighting about this,” he muttered after a while, pacing the room like he could walk off the tension. “We’ve never fought like this before.”

“That’s because every time something serious comes up, you brush it off like it’ll work itself out,” you snapped.

He spun around. “What do you want me to say? That I’ll change? That I’ll suddenly wake up one day and want to raise a kid? I’m not going to lie to you.”

“Then don’t!” you cried, your voice breaking again. “Don’t lie. But don’t expect me to stay either.”

His eyes widened. “Wait—what? No. You’re not doing this.”

“I am,” you said, barely holding yourself together. “I can’t stay with someone who doesn’t see the same future I do. It’s not fair to either of us.”

“Bullshit,” he snapped, voice rising. “You’re giving up. Just like that? After everything?”

“I have to think about what’s best for me,” you said. “And I can’t keep pretending that this—us—is going anywhere.”

He looked like you’d punched him. “You don’t mean that.”

You did. And you didn’t. You didn’t want to mean it. But you had to.

You had to protect the version of yourself you’d been building for so long, the one who wanted love and a home and tiny feet running down the hallway. You had to believe that was still possible.

“I’m not going to waste more time hoping you’ll change,” you whispered. “Because what if you don’t? What if I wake up five years from now and you still don’t want what I do? What then, Jisung?”

He looked shattered. Absolutely wrecked. And still, he tried.

“Then we’d figure it out,” he said, stepping closer. “We always figure it out. That’s what we do. We work through it. We don’t just give up.”

But it didn’t feel like working through it this time. It felt like trying to build a life on top of sand.

You took a step back.

“I love you,” you said, voice hoarse. “But I’m not going to love you into something you’re not.”

“I can try,” he said, desperate now. “Let’s—let’s go to therapy. Or talk about it more. Please, just—don’t walk away.”

Your heart cracked. Shattered in slow motion.

“You shouldn’t have to try to want kids,” you said quietly. “That’s not something you force yourself into for someone else.”

“I’m not someone else,” he said. “I’m yours.”

You looked at him then, really looked. The pain in his eyes. The way he was holding himself like he was barely holding on. It would be so easy to stay. To fall into his arms and believe in something temporary. But you’d done that for too long.

You couldn’t build your forever on almosts.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, and you meant it.

He didn’t try to stop you when you turned to leave. Not because he didn’t want to. But because deep down, he knew.

You were already gone.

Jisung didn’t cry after you left. Not right away.

He just stood there in the middle of the apartment, staring at the door you’d walked out of like it might swing open again, like maybe this was just some twisted argument with an eventual apology hanging on the other side.

But the door stayed closed. The lock clicked.

That sound echoed louder than anything else in his head.

He didn’t sleep that night. Couldn’t. The silence in the apartment was unbearable. Everything felt too still, like the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for you to come back.

Your shoes weren’t by the door.

The little things were missing, and yet, everywhere he turned, you were there. A ghost that wouldn’t leave. Your jacket still hung on the back of the chair. Your favorite mug was in the sink. A single earring sat abandoned on the coffee table. He didn’t touch it. Couldn’t.

By morning, the apartment was too quiet, and his chest too full.

He sat at the kitchen counter, phone in hand, thumb hovering over your name. He wanted to call. To say he didn’t mean it. That he’d change. That maybe kids weren’t so impossible. That maybe he just needed time.

But the call never came. Not from him. Not from you.

And that’s when it began.

The shift.

The sadness came first, thick and suffocating. He could barely breathe without it pressing down on his lungs. He went through the motions, wrote a few lines of a song, deleted them. Answered a text, turned off his phone. Walked into the studio, turned right around. Everything reminded him of you. Every lyric sounded like your voice. Every silence echoed like your absence.

He stopped eating properly. He couldn’t stand the thought of sitting alone at the table where you used to eat breakfast barefoot and half-asleep. Couldn’t listen to music without wanting to smash the speakers. Couldn’t think about the future without seeing the one you wanted, the one he didn’t give you.

That’s where the anger crept in. Quietly at first, like a shadow under the door.

How dare you.

How dare you walk away after everything.

After the nights he stayed up with you, the songs he wrote for you, the times he let himself believe that maybe, just maybe he could give you everything. That even if he didn’t want kids, he could love you enough to be enough.

But it wasn’t. And you didn’t even fight for him. Not really. Not the way he fought for you.

You said you loved him, but you left.

You left because his future didn’t fit inside the perfect little box you’d built in your head, and somehow he was the one who got left with the wreckage.

And now everything pissed him off.

He snapped at his manager during a recording session. Some minor thing about studio time being pushed. Normally, he wouldn’t have cared. But now? He slammed the door behind him so hard it rattled the walls.

“You okay, man?” his manager asked, cautious.

“I’m fine,” Jisung bit out, not looking back.

He wasn’t fine. He hadn’t been fine since the moment you looked him in the eye and told him you were done. Like love had an expiration date. Like years meant nothing.

Every little thing grated on his nerves.

A barista spelling his name wrong? Rage.

A fan asking about relationship advice during a livestream? He ended the broadcast early.

A producer suggesting a more emotional tone for his lyrics? He stormed out of the booth.

Everyone around him noticed. His team started whispering behind his back. His friends sent fewer and fewer texts. He stopped responding anyway. He didn’t want their pity. Didn’t want their fake concern. Didn’t want them looking at him like he was broken.

Because he wasn’t broken.

He was angry.

He was angry at you for leaving. Angry at himself for not wanting the same things. Angry that love wasn’t enough to make you stay. Angry that you couldn’t just wait a little longer. Angry that you chose some imaginary child over him.

He used to think love was something real. Solid. Unshakable.

But now? Now it felt like something flimsy. Conditional.

You loved him, but only if he changed.

Only if he fit the picture you’d painted.

You said you wanted stability, a family, something grounded. Something he couldn’t give. Something he didn’t even want to give.

But why did that make him the villain?

Why did your dream matter more than his freedom?

Why was he suddenly the bad guy for not wanting to wake up in five years to a screaming toddler and a suffocating routine?

He used to think compromise was the answer.

But now he wasn’t sure. Maybe some people just weren’t meant to bend. Maybe some things were too core to who they were.

And maybe loving someone didn’t mean sacrificing yourself for them.

But then, why did it hurt so much?

He sat in his studio late into the night, eyes burning, jaw clenched. His guitar sat untouched beside him. A song hung unfinished in front of him, lyrics scattered, chords abandoned.

He wanted to write about love. About heartbreak. But everything sounded hollow. Fake.

Because the truth was: he hated you now.

And he hated that he hated you.

Because there was a time he would’ve given everything for you. There was a time he thought love would be enough. That if he held you close enough, you wouldn’t ask for more.

But you did.

And now, all he had was this seething heat under his skin, this gnawing ache in his chest, and a future he didn’t even recognize anymore.

You were gone.

And every day that passed, he stopped missing you and started resenting you.

Started resenting the way you made him question himself.

Started resenting the version of love you demanded.

Started resenting the idea that if he had just been different, maybe you would’ve stayed.

And worst of all, he started resenting the part of himself that almost wanted to be what you wanted.

Because he could’ve tried.

He could’ve forced himself into that mold. Given you the picket fence, the crib, the schedule. But then who would he be?

Not Jisung. Not really.

And still, he hated you for making him choose.

You hadn't unpacked half the boxes.

You told yourself it was because you were busy. You told your friends you were just easing into the new place. But the truth? You couldn’t even look at the taped-up cardboard stacked along the hallway without feeling a twist in your stomach. That new apartment wasn’t home. Not even close. It smelled too clean, too empty, too foreign. No creaky floorboard near the kitchen. No slightly faulty light switch in the hall. No Jisung's jacket draped on the chair.

Just silence. Cold and sterile. Like you were squatting in someone else’s life.

The breakup had gutted you.

You’d imagined it would hurt, but not like this. You hadn’t expected it to swallow you whole. To make you feel like your own body was betraying you. You could barely stay awake some days, head pounding, your stomach constantly churning, food turning your mouth sour. Nausea crept up without warning. The migraines were worse. And the back pain, it was unbearable. You kept telling yourself it was just stress. Just grief. Just the weight of losing someone you’d thought would be your forever.

Jisung.

Even thinking his name made your eyes burn. The argument played on a loop in your mind. Every word. Every yell. The way his voice cracked when he said he loved you. The way he looked at you like you were tearing him apart when you said you couldn’t stay.

You’d thought leaving would feel empowering. Like reclaiming your future. But all it felt like was free-falling without a parachute. Alone. Empty.

So when Jia and Lana, your best friends said they were coming over, you didn’t say no.

You didn’t want to be alone anymore.

You opened the door for them in the baggiest hoodie you owned, dark circles under your eyes, hair tied up like you hadn’t even tried. Because you hadn’t. Not in days.

“Holy shit,” Lana muttered the moment she saw you. “You look like a ghost.”

“Love the honesty,” you mumbled, stepping aside to let them in.

Jia walked in with a grocery bag full of junk food and wine. “We brought reinforcements.”

You gave a half-hearted smile and followed them to the couch. They looked around your place, boxes untouched, kitchen still half-set up and exchanged a look you caught but didn’t address.

“Alright,” Jia said, flopping onto the couch. “We let you have your silence for a few weeks, but we’re not doing that anymore. Spill.”

You hesitated. Chewed your lip. Looked at the floor.

“We broke up,” you said flatly.

“Clearly,” Lana said. “But why?”

You didn’t want to say it. You’d kept it locked away, even from yourself. But the words were right there now, like they’d been waiting at the back of your throat for too long.

“He didn’t want a family,” you whispered. “He didn’t want kids. Didn’t want that life.”

They were both quiet.

You looked up and saw confusion flash across Jia’s face, and something sharper in Lana’s.

“Wait… that’s it?” Jia asked, frowning. “That’s why you left him?”

You gave a hollow laugh. “That’s not it. We screamed. I said I couldn’t stay with someone who didn’t see a future with me. He said I was giving up. That I didn’t love him enough to compromise.”

“Did you want to compromise?” Lana asked softly.

You shook your head. “No. I’ve always wanted that. A home. A family. I wasn’t going to let myself settle for less.”

Silence settled around the three of you for a moment. Then Jia leaned over and squeezed your hand.

“You did the right thing,” she said firmly. “You were honest about what you needed. That’s not wrong.”

You nodded slowly, even though it didn’t feel like truth. It felt like hell.

“I miss him,” you admitted, voice cracking. “I feel like I can’t breathe most days.”

“That’s grief,” Lana said gently. “Doesn’t mean you were wrong. It means it mattered.”

Jia stood up and pulled a bottle of wine out of the bag. “Okay, we’re not solving this tonight. But we are drowning your sorrows.”

You raised your hand weakly. “I—actually, I can’t drink.”

They both froze.

“Why?” Jia blinked. “Are you on meds?”

“No,” you said slowly. “It’s just—my body’s been all over the place. Headaches, nausea, back pain. I’ve been throwing up constantly. It’s like… every symptom ever.”

“You sound like me when I had food poisoning,” Jia said, trying to lighten the mood.

Lana snorted. “No, you sound pregnant.”

You froze.

Jia laughed too, but then stopped when she saw your face. “Wait… wait, no. You’re not. Right?”

You didn’t respond.

“Hold on,” Lana said, sitting up straighter. “You haven’t…? You’re not on birth control, right?”

“I was,” you said faintly. “But… we got lazy. We always did. He said it was fine. I said it was fine. We trusted each other. I didn’t think…”

“Oh my god,” Jia whispered.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

You felt the air leave your lungs. Felt the room tilt slightly. Your heart was pounding in your ears.

It all clicked like a slap. Like a bolt of lightning to the spine.

The nausea. The vomiting. The back pain. The soreness. The exhaustion.

The fact that you were late.

You hadn’t even noticed. You were so wrapped up in grief, in anger, in heartbreak, in trying not to drown, that you hadn’t stopped to count the days. And now, sitting here between your two best friends, your stomach twisted in a different way entirely.

Jia reached out and took your hand. “When was your last—?”

You shook your head. “I don’t know. I can’t remember. I haven’t been keeping track.”

Lana stood up. “We’re getting you a test.”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, I—I can’t—what if—”

“What if you are?” Jia said gently. “Then we deal with it. Together.”

Your breath caught.

You weren’t ready for this. Not emotionally. Not physically. Not mentally. And especially not without him.

What if you were carrying the one thing he never wanted?

What if the fight you thought had ended everything… had only just begun?

Jia stood slowly. “Okay. Okay. We’re not freaking out. We’re going to the pharmacy. Right now.”

You didn’t move.

You sat there, paralyzed, as realization sunk in like lead into your bones.

The nausea. The headaches. The fatigue. The back pain.

The way your body didn’t feel like yours anymore.

The way your emotions had been on a knife’s edge since that night with Jisung.

The way you’d left because he didn’t want a child and you might already have been carrying one.

Tears welled in your eyes, unspoken words crumbling in your throat. Jia sat back down beside you and wrapped her arms around your shoulders. Lana crouched in front of you, her hands on your knees.

“Hey,” Lana whispered. “No matter what happens, you’re not alone, okay? We’re here. We’ll figure it out.”

You nodded, but you didn’t feel reassured.

Because now, everything had changed.

And you weren’t sure how to breathe.

The trip to the pharmacy was a blur.

You barely remembered getting in the car, or how Lana managed to keep the conversation light as Jia drove through the quiet streets, trying to fill the silence with anything that wasn’t panic. The buildings passed like smudged paintings outside the window. You just stared, numb, hands clenched in your lap.

You weren’t crying. Not yet. You weren’t feeling anything. Just floating, adrift in your own body, your own thoughts.

When the neon light of the 24-hour pharmacy blinked into view, it didn’t feel real.

Lana hopped out first. “Come on,” she said, trying for her usual confidence. “We’ll go with you.”

Jia gave your hand a squeeze. “We’ve got you, okay?”

You nodded, but it was empty.

The bell over the pharmacy door chimed when you walked in. The air inside was too bright, too sterile. Every step toward the pregnancy test aisle felt like walking deeper into something you couldn't take back. The aisle was quiet, and there was something humiliating in the way you reached for the box, something too loud in the crinkle of the packaging as your fingers closed around it.

You felt like the whole store could hear it.

When you made your way to the register, there was only one cashier, an older woman with tired eyes and thin, pressed lips. Her eyes flicked to the box in your hands, and then up to your face. She didn’t say anything. But she didn’t have to.

The look was enough.

Judgmental. Knowing.

Like she’d already drawn her conclusions, tucked you into a neat little box of irresponsibility and shame. Like she knew you weren’t ready. Like she knew you were just another girl who made a mistake.

And you wanted to scream. You wanted to tell her you weren’t like that. That you weren’t careless. That you wanted a family. That this wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

But you didn’t say anything.

You paid in silence, holding the little white bag like it was full of glass. And when you stepped outside into the parking lot, the night air felt sharp against your skin.

Back home, Jia and Lana followed you wordlessly into the apartment. You didn’t even bother taking your shoes off.

“I’ll wait outside,” Jia said softly, her voice gentle, cautious. “Unless you want—”

“No,” you interrupted. “I just… I need a minute.”

“Okay.” Lana nodded. “We’re right here, though. You’re not doing this alone.”

The bathroom door closed behind you with a soft click, and the silence that followed was deafening.

You sat on the edge of the tub, hands trembling as you opened the box. The instructions blurred a little. You read them anyway, three times, like somehow they’d say something different. Like maybe you’d missed something. Maybe there was still a way out of this feeling.

There wasn’t.

The test was cold in your hand. Mechanical. Impersonal. Like it didn’t understand the weight of what it could tell you. Like it didn’t care.

You did what you needed to do.

Then you set the stick down on the edge of the sink and set your phone timer.

Three minutes.

Three minutes to sit there, heart racing, mind spiraling.

Three minutes to question every decision you’d made. Every word of that fight with Jisung. Every scream. Every tear.

You’d wanted this. A family. A child. A life you could call your own.

But not like this.

Not like this, with shaking hands and no one by your side. Not in a cold bathroom under fluorescent lights, with your body already aching and your chest hollowed out by the absence of the person you thought would be there when it happened.

You thought about the way he looked at you during that last fight. Like you were breaking his heart.

You thought about the silence afterward. The way he never called. The way you never called.

You thought about how it ended because he didn’t want this. And how now, somehow, you were here anyway.

And you were alone.

Your phone vibrated, the sharp trill of the timer slicing through the stillness.

You didn’t move for a second. Just stared.

Then, slowly, you reached for the test.

You looked.

And everything inside you fell apart.

Positive.

Two lines. Clear. Unmistakable.

There was no maybe. No error.

You were pregnant.

Your vision blurred instantly, your breath catching on a sob that ripped up from somewhere deep in your chest. Your hands flew to your mouth, as if you could stop the sound from escaping. But it was too late.

The weight of it crushed you.

You curled forward, sobbing so hard your ribs ached. Your body trembled, your heart pounding like it was trying to claw its way out.

You didn’t even hear the door burst open.

But you felt them.

Jia was on the floor beside you in an instant, her arms around you before you could even speak. Lana followed, kneeling, her hand on your back.

They didn’t ask. They didn’t need to.

“Oh my God,” Jia whispered, voice shaking.

Lana pressed her forehead against your shoulder. “Breathe. Just breathe, okay? We’re here. We’re right here.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t think—” Your voice broke. “He didn’t want this. He didn’t want this.”

“I know,” Jia murmured, rocking you gently. “But you’re not alone.”

You weren’t sure if that was true. Not really.

Because no matter how tightly they held you, no matter how soft their voices were, the truth was that your heart was broken, and your future had just changed forever.

And Jisung didn’t even know.

Eventually, the sobs ran out.

You didn’t know how long you stayed there, curled up on the bathroom floor, the test lying forgotten by the sink like some cruel joke. Your body felt heavy, like you’d been wrung out, your soul cracked open and left to dry in the cold fluorescent light.

When Jia helped you to your feet, she didn’t let go. Her arm stayed wrapped around your waist as she guided you out of the bathroom, and Lana silently grabbed a blanket from the arm of the couch, draping it around your shoulders as you sank into the cushions.

The apartment still felt foreign. But the couch, worn in and sunken felt a little like home, if only because you’d cried into it every night since the breakup.

They didn’t say much at first. Just sat with you. Gave you time.

You weren’t sure how much time passed before Jia finally broke the silence.

“You’re going to be okay,” she said softly, her voice full of something that sounded like belief. “I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but… you will.”

You didn’t answer.

Because how could you be okay?

You were barely holding it together. You were heartbroken. Exhausted. Confused. You felt like a stranger in your own skin, like the world was spinning too fast and everyone else had their feet planted except for you.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” you whispered eventually, staring at nothing. “I feel like I can’t even breathe.”

Lana sat down beside you and tucked your hair behind your ear. “You don’t have to have it all figured out right now. You just found out. One step at a time, okay?”

You nodded numbly.

But then Jia’s voice broke through, gentle but firm. “He should know.”

You stiffened.

“Jisung?” you asked, not bothering to hide the bitterness in your voice. “You think I should call him? After that breakup? After everything?”

“He’s still—” she started, but you cut her off.

“What, I’m supposed to pick up the phone and say, ‘Hey, I know you didn’t want this, but I’m pregnant’? You think that’ll go well?”

Jia’s face twisted with sympathy. “No. I’m not saying it’s easy. I’m just saying he deserves to know. It’s his, too.”

You laughed bitterly, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes.

“He made it very clear he didn’t want to be a father. We screamed about it for hours. I left because of it. I’m not dragging him into this now.”

Lana frowned. “But it’s not dragging him in. It’s telling him the truth. What he does with it after that is on him.”

You shook your head, the tears already threatening to start again. “I can’t see him. I can’t even hear his voice without feeling like I’m breaking all over again.”

Silence fell again, heavy and weighted.

Lana, ever the quieter of the two, finally broke it after a long pause.

“Then don’t see him,” she said gently. “Write him a letter.”

You blinked, confused.

“A letter?”

“Yeah,” she said, leaning forward. “Tell him everything. How you feel. What happened. What you want. Don’t filter it. Just let it all out. You don’t even have to send it right away. But… if you can’t talk to him in person, maybe writing will help.”

You were quiet.

You hadn't thought about that. But something about the idea made your chest ache in a different way. It wasn’t a confrontation. It wasn’t immediate. But it was honest.

Still, the idea of writing to him… it was like opening a door you’d slammed shut just to stay upright.

“I don’t even know what I’d say,” you admitted. “What do you say to someone who ripped your heart out and you still love them?”

“You say what you need to,” Jia said, her voice soft and steady. “Say everything you never got to.”

You looked down at your hands.

Your fingers were shaking again. From fear, maybe. From exhaustion. From still not knowing what your next step would be.

“Maybe,” you whispered. “Maybe I’ll try.”

Lana squeezed your hand. “That’s all we’re asking.”

And for the first time that night, you didn’t feel quite as alone.

It was past midnight by the time Jia and Lana finally stood to leave.

They didn’t want to. You could see it in the way they lingered by the door, casting worried glances over their shoulders, their eyes filled with unspoken hesitation. But you needed the silence. Needed the space to feel everything without having to translate it into words for anyone else.

Before they left, they each gave you a hug, long, warm, and impossibly tight. The kind of hug that tried to hold your heart together.

“We’re just a call away,” Lana whispered into your shoulder.

Jia cupped your face gently. “Take care of yourself. And write that letter. Even if you don’t send it.”

You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and watched them go. The door clicked shut with a finality that felt heavier than it should’ve. Then you were alone again.

Really alone.

You stood in the center of your quiet, dimly lit living room, wrapped in the same blanket, the faint hum of the refrigerator the only sound left to keep you company. The soft cushions of the couch sagged where the three of you had just sat. A half-full glass of water sat forgotten on the coffee table. The white pharmacy bag was still on the bathroom counter like a ghost of what had just happened.

And the test was still there.

Positive.

You turned away from it and sank to the floor beside the low table, pulling your knees to your chest. Time passed. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe thirty. Eventually, your fingers reached for the drawer beneath the table, pulling out a notebook and an old ballpoint pen. The page felt too white. Too new. Too honest.

You stared at it.

Then you began to write.

The first line didn’t make sense. Neither did the second. The words were stiff, robotic, guarded. You ripped the page out. Crumpled it. Threw it aside.

Then another.

And another.

For hours, the floor around you slowly filled with small white paper orbs, tiny broken attempts at being brave, at being honest, at saying the right thing. None of them felt like enough. None of them felt like you.

You were terrified of getting it wrong. Terrified of opening that door and letting him see how shattered you were.

Because if he didn’t respond, if he didn’t care, you weren’t sure if you’d survive it.

It wasn’t until your hand was cramping and your eyes were blurry with exhaustion that it finally came together.

Not perfectly. Not beautifully. But truthfully.

You stared down at the letter for a long moment before you began to read it over:

Jisung,

I don’t really know how to start this, except to say I’m sorry. Truly, deeply sorry.

For how it ended. For the things I said. For the things I couldn’t say at the time because I was too angry, too hurt, too heartbroken to find the words.

I want you to know that I loved you. I still love you. That’s what made everything so hard. You were home to me. For so long, I thought we were going to spend the rest of our lives together. So when I realized we wanted such different things… it broke me.

I thought I could walk away and feel strong. I thought leaving was the right thing to do. But it felt like cutting my own heart out.

These past few weeks have been hell. I moved out, I tried to move on, but I haven’t been okay. I’ve been sick, physically and emotionally. I thought it was the stress at first, nausea, migraines, fatigue, the kind of pain that doesn’t let you breathe.

And then Jia and Lana came over. And we joked about it. At first.

Then I realized… it wasn’t a joke.

We went to the pharmacy tonight. I bought a pregnancy test. I took it. I stared at the result for what felt like forever.

It was positive.

Jisung… I’m pregnant.

I know this is the last thing you wanted. I know this might feel like a betrayal, or like a nightmare, or something you never imagined happening between us. And I’m not telling you this to try to force you into anything. I’m telling you because you deserve to know.

You have every right to walk away. To pretend this letter never existed. If you don’t want to be involved, I understand. I won’t chase you. I won’t beg. I’ll raise this baby on my own if I have to. But I couldn’t not tell you.

If you want nothing to do with me or the baby, I’ll take the hint. If you don’t respond, no calls, no texts I’ll understand, and I’ll disappear from your life.

But if some small part of you wants to talk… I’m here.

I just needed you to know.

Love,

You let the pen fall from your fingers as the final word settled onto the page like dust.

Your hands were trembling again, but it wasn’t just fear this time. It was relief, too. Catharsis. Like you’d finally let out something you’d been holding onto for too long.

The letter wasn’t perfect. It didn’t fix anything. But it was the truth.

And maybe that was enough. For now.

You leaned your forehead against the edge of the table, the paper still in your lap, and closed your eyes.

You weren’t sure what came next.

But at least now… he’d know.

It was late.

So late, the world outside your window felt like a dream, one soaked in shadows and muted by silence. The clock on your phone blinked 2:07 a.m. in pale white digits, and the city had long since tucked itself into stillness. But you couldn’t sleep. You hadn’t even tried.

The letter sat on your kitchen table, folded neatly, sealed inside a plain envelope with his name written across the front in your handwriting, the one he used to call pretty, always a little tilted, always a little too careful. You’d read the letter at least a dozen times, and still, the words felt like they bled every time you looked at them.

You didn’t want to give it to him.

But you also couldn’t keep it.

So before you could think twice, you grabbed your coat, your keys, and the letter, clutching it like it was made of glass. The air outside was cold, and the drive felt like a slow-motion reel of all your memories. The streets you passed were all ones you’d driven before, with Jisung in the passenger seat, legs up on the dash, humming some half-written melody.

Your hands tightened on the wheel.

The closer you got to the apartment, the heavier your chest became. It was like your body knew you were walking back into something it had barely survived.

When the building finally came into view, you had to sit in your car for a moment and just breathe.

You hadn’t been here since the breakup. Since the day you packed your things into boxes that felt more like coffins. Since you shut the door for the last time and didn’t look back.

But the building still looked the same.

Still tall. Still modern. Still home, in a way that hurt.

You pulled up to the side gate, rolling down your window as you approached the guard station and your stomach twisted.

There he was.

Bong.

You hadn’t thought about Bong. The older man who’d been stationed there almost every night, always sitting in his chair with his crossword puzzle and thermos of barley tea. He’d loved you and Jisung. Always waved. Always grinned. Always made cheesy comments about how “young love like yours gives me hope.”

And now he was blinking in surprise as he looked up and recognized your face.

“Ah! Look who it is!” Bong said, standing up with a slow but cheerful stretch. “Where’ve you been hiding, sweetheart? Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

Your throat closed. You forced a smile.

“Hey, Bong. Yeah… I’ve been busy. A lot going on.”

“Busy?” he chuckled. “You and Jisung used to be stuck together like gum on a shoe. Thought maybe you were just on vacation or something.”

Your heart gave a painful jolt.

You nodded slowly. “Something like that.”

Bong gave a little laugh, patting the side of the guard booth. “Well, he’s not in tonight, if you’re here to see him. You just missed him, I think. Probably out at the studio.”

You nodded again, more quickly this time. “Yeah, I figured. I, uh… I just need to drop something off. I forgot my key, though. Think you can buzz me up?”

Bong didn’t even hesitate. He reached for the panel without question, fingers dancing over the buttons like muscle memory. Why would he question you? You used to live there. You used to be part of them.

“Of course, of course,” he said, smiling. “Don’t be a stranger, alright? You two were my favorite couple in the building. Always smiling. Always polite. Not like these loud kids on the 10th floor.”

You laughed softly, hollowly. “I’ll try.”

He buzzed you in, and you walked through the lobby like a ghost like the version of yourself that used to live there was watching from a corner, remembering how it used to feel to come home to him.

The elevator was slow. Every floor it passed felt like a memory clawing up your spine.

4A.

When the doors finally slid open, you stepped out and moved quickly, not letting yourself stop. You already knew the way. Muscle memory took over. Your feet found the familiar hallway. Your fingers traced the same line along the wall you used to follow when you came home late and didn’t want to wake him.

And there it was.

The door.

Still the same. Still painted navy blue. Still slightly scuffed at the bottom where Jisung used to kick it open with his foot when his hands were full.

You stood in front of it for a second, staring down at the handle.

You wondered if he was still using the hooks you installed behind the door. If he still left his shoes slightly to the left, if your handwriting was still on the little sticky notes stuck to the fridge. If your scent still lingered on his pillows. If he ever even looked at the empty side of the bed.

But it wasn’t your place anymore.

Not really.

Your hand shook as you crouched down and gently slid the envelope under the door, careful not to bend it. It slipped through in one smooth motion and disappeared into the quiet darkness behind the door you used to unlock every night.

And that was it.

No dramatic goodbye. No explosion. Just paper and silence.

You didn’t wait. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t let yourself feel it.

You turned and walked back to the elevator with your arms wrapped tight around yourself, like if you held on hard enough, you wouldn’t fall apart.

By the time you made it to the lobby, Bong waved again, confused as to why you were leaving.

You nodded without looking him in the eye.

Then you pushed through the glass doors and stepped back into the night, where the cold met your skin like a slap and your lungs finally remembered how to expand.

You got into your car, turned the key, and drove off, leaving a piece of yourself behind in the hallway of 4A.

And in that letter on the floor.

Waiting to be read.

Waiting to break him, or not.

You didn’t know.

You didn’t know if he’d open it at all.

But at least now… the truth was in his hands.

And all you could do now was wait.

The building was quiet, bathed in the soft blue hues of early dawn. The kind of silence that clung to the walls, still heavy with the weight of a sleeping city. Jisung pushed through the front doors of the apartment lobby with a tired yawn stretching his face, a hand lazily dragging through his already-messy hair. He looked worn out, but lighter somehow like the crushing weight that had lived between his shoulders for weeks was finally beginning to lift.

He wasn’t whole. He wasn’t healed. But he was getting better.

Finally.

The angry, bitter edge he’d been carrying like a shield since the breakup had dulled, softened into something quieter. Less venomous, more resigned. His music had started to flow again. His manager had stopped flinching every time he walked into a room. Even his friends, who had, for a while, tiptoed around him like he was a landmine were starting to laugh with him again. Things were starting to move again.

And yet…

You were still there.

Always in the back of his mind. Like static he couldn’t quite tune out.

Even now, yawning in the lobby at five in the morning, he was thinking about you about the way you used to wait for him with tea already steeping, your legs curled up on the couch, soft music playing. About the way your handwriting covered sticky notes he still found around the apartment sometimes, even after he tried to throw them all away. About how he both hated and missed you in a way that made no sense.

That’s when he heard his name.

“Jisung!”

He blinked and looked up.

Bong, ever the night guard, stood with a warm grin and a small wave, stepping out from behind the booth like he always did.

“Back late again, huh?” Bong chuckled. “Or early, I guess.”

Jisung gave a tired smile and a small shrug. “Studio ran over. You know how it is.”

Bong nodded knowingly, then added casually, “Y/N stopped by and left quickly after.”

The words hit like a slap.

Jisung’s entire body went still.

His eyes locked onto Bong’s face, every bit of warmth draining from them in an instant.

Bong noticed the shift immediately. “What?” he asked, brow furrowed. “She didn’t say much, just said she forgot her key. I let her up, she lives here, right?”

Jisung’s jaw tightened. He looked down for a moment, then asked, voice sharp, clipped “Did she say anything else?”

Bong shook his head. “No, just that she was busy lately. But—oh, she was carrying something. An envelope, I think.”

An envelope.

Something cold and familiar crawled up Jisung’s spine.

He swallowed thickly and nodded once, muttering, “Thanks,” before turning and walking briskly toward the elevator.

He didn’t wait to hear Bong say goodbye.

His chest was tight by the time he reached the fourth floor. Each step down the hallway felt heavier than the last, anxiety and irritation crawling under his skin like ants. By the time he reached the door of his apartment, his hand was already trembling as he reached for the handle.

He didn’t know what he expected.

Maybe a note taped to the door. Maybe nothing at all.

But there it was.

The envelope.

Lying just past the threshold on the floor. Still sealed. Still untouched. Still hers.

His.

Jisung stared at it like it might explode.

He didn’t move for a long time.

His thoughts were a mess. racing, snarling, tripping over each other with every passing second. He didn’t need to pick it up to know it was from you. He could recognize your handwriting with his eyes closed. He used to trace it on your back with his finger when you were sleeping.

He bent down slowly, jaw clenched, and picked it up.

It was light.

Just one page, maybe two. It smelled faintly like you. Like the vanilla lotion you always wore, the one he pretended not to like but secretly found comforting.

He hated how fast his heart was beating.

What does she want?

Why now?

Is she trying to come back?

Does she think I’m still waiting for her?

The thoughts twisted into anger before he could stop them.

He scoffed, bitterness curling on his tongue like smoke. “Unbelievable,” he muttered to himself.

He was doing better.

He was moving on.

He was finally breathing without choking on her name.

And now she was back, her shadow pressing into the crack beneath his door, her words lying in wait in his hallway, like some ghost that refused to stay buried.

“Probably just wants to talk,” he muttered bitterly. “Probably wants to fix things. Pretend like it didn’t happen. Like she didn’t throw me away.”

He walked to the desk in his office, the envelope dangling from his fingers like it disgusted him. His eyes fell on the drawer he hadn’t touched in weeks, where he kept unfinished lyrics, contracts, spare USBs, pens, and things he didn’t want to look at.

He yanked it open and shoved the letter in without a second thought.

Then slammed it shut.

Hard.

The sound echoed through the apartment, loud and final.

He stood there, breathing heavily, hands braced on the desk like he needed it to stay upright. His jaw was clenched so tight it ached. His vision was blurry with emotion he didn’t want to name.

Because he knew.

He knew the moment he opened that drawer again, when he touched that envelope, read those words, it wouldn’t just be you pulling him back in.

It would be everything.

All the pain. All the love. All the parts of himself he wasn’t ready to feel again.

So for now… he wouldn’t.

He wouldn't read it.

He wouldn’t feel it.

Not yet.

But the letter was there.

And no matter how hard he tried to forget it…

He knew he’d open that drawer again eventually.

Rest didn’t come easy anymore.

Not that it ever did, after Jisung. But lately, even the small comforts, warm tea, soft music, rain against your window, did nothing to settle the storm constantly churning in your chest. You couldn’t sleep through the night. You couldn’t go more than an hour without wondering if he’d read it. If he’d at least seen the envelope. If he’d seen your handwriting and felt anything at all.

The uncertainty gnawed at you like a second heartbeat.

You kept telling yourself no news is good news, but that wasn’t true, not when the silence was deafening. Not when it meant you had no answers. Not when every unread message, every call you didn’t make, left you drowning in maybes and what-ifs.

You kept checking your phone.

You hated yourself for it.

Every time it buzzed, your heart leapt into your throat before plummeting back down when it wasn’t his name lighting up your screen. You tried to be rational. Tried to tell yourself he was processing, that maybe he needed time. You’d written that in the letter, after all. “If you don’t want to respond, I’ll understand.” But you didn’t really mean that. Not completely. Not when a part of you had still hoped he’d come running.

But weeks passed. Then a month.

A whole month.

No call. No message. No knock on your door.

And at some point between the quiet sobs in the shower, and the nights you lay curled in bed with one hand pressed gently over your growing stomach, you realized something soul-shattering:

He wasn’t coming.

He’d read it. Or maybe he hadn’t. But either way, he knew. And his silence was an answer in itself.

It gutted you.

Because you hadn’t just told him you were pregnant, you told him you still loved him. That you were scared. That you were willing to raise this baby with or without him. You’d given him a window back in, and he’d walked past it like it didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter. Like the baby growing inside you, a piece of both of you didn’t matter.

You cried harder than you had since the breakup.

And when the tears ran dry, what settled in wasn’t peace, it was resolve.

You had no choice but to move on.

Because this wasn’t just about your broken heart anymore.

This was about the tiny life blooming inside you. The little heartbeat that fluttered stronger with every week. The child you’d already started to love before you’d ever seen their face.

You weren’t alone, not really. Not with Jia and Lana.

They were there through every panic attack, every 3 a.m. spiral, every emotional breakdown over cereal. They never asked for too much, never pushed you too hard. They simply showed up.

When you told them about the silence, about how Jisung never replied, never called, never even acknowledged your letter, they were furious.

Jia paced your living room, arms folded tightly across her chest. “I can’t believe him. Seriously. What kind of coward ignores something like that? You gave him a chance, and he just—ghosts you?”

Lana was quieter, but her face was tight with restrained anger. “It’s one thing to break up. It’s another to abandon someone when they need you most.”

You just sat on the couch, blanket wrapped around your legs, head resting against the pillow as you stared out the window. The late afternoon sun had begun to dip beneath the buildings, turning everything gold and tired.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” you whispered, voice hoarse from crying. “He didn’t want a kid. He told me that. I just thought... I don’t know. I thought maybe once it was real, once he knew... he might change his mind.”

Jia sat beside you and pulled you into a tight hug, her hand gently smoothing your hair. “That’s not on you. You were honest. You did everything right.”

Lana knelt in front of you, her expression softening. “You gave him a choice, and he made it. That’s on him. Not you.”

You nodded, tears gathering again, but you didn’t let them fall. Not this time.

Instead, you reached for the ultrasound photo you’d been keeping in a book on the table nearby. It was blurry, indistinct, but it was yours. Proof that you weren’t alone. Proof that there was still something to fight for even if the person you wanted beside you had walked away.

“I’m going to do this,” you whispered. “With or without him.”

And for the first time in weeks, your voice didn’t shake when you said it.

masterlist.

❌proofread

907 notes · View notes

strayflowersstarsandlove · 4 months ago

Text

baby daddy!skz reacting to your water breaking💧

✨more dad!skz texts

✨main masterlist for more delulu bf!skz

✨taglist @milf-ivy @minluvly @nervousbasementtimemachine @m1lfl0v3r4l1fe

@atiana1996 @dreamerwasfound @staydoida1

@chlodavids @ivyreadsstuff @sapphirewaves

@hannahhhhs-things @skzwife

🖤hyung line🖤

🖤maknae line🖤

895 notes · View notes

angel-writes-skz-here · 20 days ago

Text

Oops

Bang Chan x AFAB! Reader Synopsis: Your sweet son, Hwan, is at the wrong place at the wrong time. Warnings: A little smut, oral (f. receiving) and a lot of fluff A/N: Thank you for the request! I sincerely hope you like it! I'm going to write more stories about these 3 because I'm lowkey in love with Dad! Chan now. Requests are OPEN!

You and Chris finally moved in together, Hwan was quickly adjusting to having his father around more and more, he wanted Chris to take him everywhere on the days he was off, play toy cars and dinosaurs and all the things.

The day came to an end at work and when you opened the door to your now shared apartment, the sight filled your heart with so much love.

Chan was on the floor on his hands and knees and Hwan was on his back playing ‘horsey’. Neither of them heard you come in and you shut the door quietly, listening at Christopher neighed and raised up, causing Hwan to squeal in excitement. Your smile only got wider as you could see how much more enriched your lives had all become. You really were a little family.

Chris turns around with Hwan balancing himself on his back and see’s you, his eyes grow wide before a cheeky smile plays on his face.

“Say buddy, you think Eomma wants a turn?” you blush at his innuendo and giggle.

“I’m good, you keep playing while I make dinner.”

“I want chicken nuggets!”

“You always want chicken nuggets,” you playfully tease your son as you run up to him picking him up and kissing his cheek. He bursts out into laughter and Chris raises up to his feet, rubbing his back.

“Oh don’t tell me you’re all ready old, Channie,” you tease. You offer him a wink and he smirks.

“I’ll show you who’s old later tonight,” he murmurs in your ear and you giggle swatting his chest. He kisses your lips, soft and deep. You sigh against him, a little lost in the moment before you hear Hwan get one of his robot toys and turn it on, breaking the sweet moment. You smile at each other as you look at him.

“I’ll make dinner,” he whispers as he takes your bag off your shoulder gently and sets it down in the kitchen. You step out of your heels and sigh as you sit down on the couch.

As Hwan requested, he got his chicken nuggets for dinner that night. The meal time is sweet, filled with conversations that your little one couldn’t help but be apart of.

“And then, appa took me to the park, we saw ducks!” he says excitedly.

“Oh my goodness! I wanna see ducks.” You say feigning jealousy.

“You have to go to the park,” your son informs you as if you didn’t know.

“I can’t see them anywhere else?”

“No,” he takes a bite and chews it absentmindedly. You two giggle at Hwan and finish the meal together.

The bedtime routine goes as usual. He wants both of you to tuck him in, but Chris to tell him a story.

“So the prince was a popular star, he ruled the kingdom but also the stage.” Hwan’s eyes sparkle at his father’s words.

“And he met his princess, his future Queen,” he glances at you before turning back to your son, “And she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. But a dragon came and kidnapped the princess, taking her away from the prince."

“No!” he says dramatically as he puts his hands on his little cheeks in shock.

“But the prince saved her by slaying the dragon, and kissing the princess telling her how much he loved her and he swore he’d never leave her again. That she would always be safe with him around.”

“Yay!” Hwan claps his little hands and you smile nostalgically at him. Both of you kiss his forehead and Hwan lays down, Chan tucking him in. He shuts the door and you’re about to walk into the living room, before Chris pulls you into the direction of your bedroom.

“Chris!” You giggle as he shuts the door behind you. He pulls you by your waist to him and his lips mold to yours. The way the two of you fit together is as perfect and as natural as breathing.

“I was thinking,” you say in between kisses, “I have the day off tomorrow, why don’t I bring Hwan up the studio and let the guys meet him?"

“Sounds perfect,” he smiles before his hands playfully squeeze your ass. He moves his lips down to your neck, sucking, biting and licking over your pulse point.

“Ah, don’t leave a visible mark,” you warn him gently. He groans against your neck.

“I don’t want Hwan asking questions yet. I’m not sure he understands everything yet.”

His forehead drops to your shoulder for a brief moment before his lips ghost your ear.

“Fine, then get on the bed and I’ll leave them in places Hwan won’t see,” you can hear the smirk in his voice as your stomach feels the nervous excited heat flood in.

You walk over, swaying your hips a little dramatically and Chan is on your heels. Clothes are strown around the room, before the two of you get under the blankets and Chan holds himself over you. He kisses down your body, moans of pleasure quietly fill the silent room.

He licks a slow stripe up your core, your eyes fluttering closed as his tongue laps at your clit. Your hands find his hair, pushing his face deeper and he moans, the sensation and thought of making you feel good the only idea in his head. His finger works into your hole, hitting that perfect spongey spot just inside your entrance and your back arches off the bed.

Hwan stirs awake in his dimly lit room, thanks to his wolf chanmnight light, and rubs his eyes. He grabs his wolf Chan plush, because of course Chan said he had to have everything that was wolf chan theme, and drags himself out of bed. He hears weird noises coming from your bedroom, muffled but loud enough for him to be concerned about you.

“Eomma?” Chan freezes under the blanket and your eyes snap open. You look at the innocent little four year old who’s still rubbing sleep out of his eye. His cheeks slightly red from the tears he'd cried when during his nightmare.

“Hwan! Are you ok?” Your voice is frantic as you pull the covers up over you.

“Bad dream,” he sniffles and a few tears streak down his cheeks.

“Oh, baby,” your heart hurts for him, but you can’t exactly scoop him up at the moment.

“Where’s Appa,” he begins to whine and Chris slowly moves out from under the blanket.

“I’m here buddy.” He begins to full on cry now, and you look at Chan apologetically. Chris looks over at you and he knows the night between the two of you is over.

He runs over to pick up Hwan and takes him out of the bedroom so you can throw on a robe. When you walk out to check on your boys you notice them sitting at the kitchen table.

“What’s going on?”

“I thought ice cream might help,” Chris says sheepishly.

“You know he isn’t supposed to have sugar this late,” you light scold.

“He was crying, I mean look at him. He’s so happy. I really think it’s working!” Chan’s face is a picture of happiness, even if his night isn’t going as planned.

After the ice cream Chan scoops Hwan and wolf Chan both up and takes him to your shared room.

“What were you guys doing?” he asks once him and his plushie are settled between you.

“Uh,” you look to Chan for help.

“Eomma thought she lost something in the bed so I was helping her look for it.”

“Why were you making noises?”

“Because your Appa was being very helpful,” you kiss your son’s forehead.

“Come on, it’s time to go to sleep,” you try to encourage as you and Chan exchange knowing looks.

Tags: @breakmeoff

*Please do not copy or upload my work anywhere else*

Comment if you'd like to be added to my taglist!💕

Comments, love notes and requests are all appreciated😊

400 notes · View notes

giddyfatherchris · 11 months ago

Text

📱skz texts — skz dads send you updates on your child

| including. han, felix, seungmin, i.n

type. requested (thank youuu)

warnings. none

a/n. honestly i can’t even decide which of these i like more, i just love to imagine them all as dads also searching up the baby pics gave me crazy baby fever jesus christ🥺 would also like to say i was SO thrilled when i found the pic for hannie!!! it looks so much like him.?? raaaah i love these hope you do too, love u babes mwah

hyung line

han

felix

seungmin

i.n

#ilya texts fics #stray kids #stray kids x reader #stray kids fluff #stray kids texts #bang chan #lee know #changbin #hyunjin #han skz #felix skz #seungmin skz #i.n skz #stray kids dads

922 notes · View notes

godslino · 1 year ago

Text

2:45a.m. | minho established relationship. fluff. dad!minho.

pairing: minho x fem!reader word count: 2.5k summary: when a storm hits, minho makes sure your daughter is able to fall back asleep

· · · ♡ masterlist · · · ♡ taglist · · · ♡

You’re not sure what wakes you first: the crack of thunder or the resulting cry.

Your entire body jolts, the room painted in a flash of white that disappears just as quickly as it came. The weather report had stated that there would be a storm, however ones this bad were uncommon, especially in Seoul.

Another cry. It crackles through the baby monitor on the nightstand at the same time it echoes off of the walls of the other room. You move to kick the covers off when an arm stops you, warm and heavy where it’s thrown over your waist. You instantly relax into the touch, sighing when the tip of a nose brushes against the shell of your ear.

“I got her,” Minho mumbles, his voice raspy with sleep.

“It’s okay. You have an early morning, I can do it.” You argue, but make no move to get up.

Minho doesn’t respond, instead he knocks a kiss to your temple and tightens the blanket around you once he’s out of bed. You hear the soft pads of his feet against the floor and crack one eye open just in time to see him slip out of the room, his voice floating into the hallway, ‘Uh oh, what happened to the princess?’

The way the crying stops almost immediately is proof enough that it was a good thing Minho went in place of you. Seola is a fussy baby; she cries loud and wants incessantly—more than the usual ten month old. She can’t go anywhere without her elephant binky and hates wearing hats, if she doesn’t like a food she’ll snap her lips shut and turn her head until her face is pressed into the back of the high chair, when she’s angry she shakes a tiny fist in your direction and pounds it against your arm. But perhaps the most difficult thing, the one that has you wanting to pull your hair out most of the time, is that sometimes the only way to calm her down is if Minho is the one to do it.

A part of you always knew that your baby would favor Minho, as funny as it sounds. When you first got pregnant, one of the things the two of you were most excited for was being able to feel the baby kicking. Minho sang to your belly every night after you first broke the news, even as you laughed and told him that he or she didn’t have ears yet.

“So?” he questioned, glaring at you from where he had his head pressed against the bare skin of your stomach.

“You also know you don’t have to lift my shirt up, right?”

“Yeah? Well then I can’t do this,” he’d said before blowing a raspberry straight onto your belly button. His laughter then quickly turned into a string of apologies as he came to the realization that the sound might have been too loud, his hand rubbing soothing circles along the lower part of your stomach while you watched with fond eyes.

Minho never missed a night. He made sure that he was always home before you went to bed when he could be, oftentimes fighting with his manager to be let out early or skip practice entirely, promising to show up early the next day and put in the work on his own time. On the nights where he couldn’t make it or the two of you were separated by distance that made him want to give it all up, he called and made you press the speaker into your gradually hardening baby bump.

You and Minho found out that you were having a girl on the day of the first snow. The two of you watched with tear-filled eyes as the ultrasound technician pointed to the monitor in excitement, her smile detectable even beneath the mask she had covering her face.

“Congratulations! It’s a girl!”

Minho called his mom first. Her shouts of joy were so loud that he had to hold the phone away from his ear, his smile the brightest that you’d ever seen. Pride. He was so proud of his little family that he thought his heart might burst.

You called your parents next, and Minho held the phone up so that the two of you could give them the news through the camera, his free hand squeezing yours tightly as you cried and told them that you couldn’t wait for them to come visit once the baby came.

The members were last, all seven of them piled on top of one another on the couch in the practice room, Hyunjin and Changbin fighting over the fact that ‘I can’t see, asshole!’ and ‘You’re tall enough just stand in the back!’

Finding out the gender of the baby made everything more real. Bows and dresses and frilly socks—every time Minho came back to the apartment he had a shopping bag hanging from his arm. He spent most of the time on his phone looking at baby things and stuff that was completely unnecessary.

“What about this?” he asked, pointing his phone down to where your head was resting in his lap.

“Minho,” you scolded, glancing up at him with furrowed eyebrows, “I am not buying a booger straw for the baby.”

“It’s not a booger straw—”

“That is one hundred percent a booger straw. You literally have to suck the boogers out of their nose. Can’t we just buy a nasal suction like normal people?”

“What if it’s not efficient enough? I hate when my nose is stuffy, what more our baby? She won’t even be able to communicate with us, I feel so bad for her.”

“Oh God,” you groaned, dramatically throwing an arm over your face as Minho continued to explain in thorough detail why a booger straw was a necessity in that very moment, even though your due date was still months away.

As time passed and your stomach grew, so did the nerves Minho had about not being present enough. With the nature of his career, it was hard for him to not feel like he wasn’t excessively absent most of the time. Stress took a toll on him, mentally and physically. It wore him thin until the circles under his eyes were the worst you’d ever seen and his mornings couldn’t start without a mandatory dosage of ibuprofen to dull the headache he had the minute he woke up.

Minho was doubtful. He had dreams that his daughter wouldn’t know who he was and that his moments with her would be spent through a phone call rather than with his arms wrapped around her tiny body. He felt like he had already failed a million times without ever even having the chance to prove himself.

On the night the baby kicked for the first time, Minho came home late.

Pregnancy fatigue had taken its toll on you that day. You’d remained in bed, too nauseated to move and aching throughout the entire expanse of your back. Minho worried the moment he woke up, but you’d urged him that you were okay and sent him on his way to the company, practically begging him to leave rather than to deal with another earful from his manager about absences. Luckily for you, his mom was able to come over, and you let her dote on you as well as cook and clean as much as she pleased.

You’d fallen asleep early, your stomach full of homemade food and blankets freshly washed, leaving Minho in a frazzled state because you hadn’t picked up his calls for his nightly belly-singing session. To top it all off, dance practice ran late because of a last minute formation change that needed to be perfected before the next day’s performance.

When he finally made it home, Minho booked it to the bedroom, dropping to his knees next to the bed to place his hands on your stomach as you slept peacefully on your side, your head tucked into the crook of your elbow.

Sometimes, unbeknownst to you, Minho would wake in the middle of the night and talk to your stomach, talk to the baby. It was a little self-indulgent, some alone time for him to speak all of his worries, fears, hopes, and dreams out into the world. That night, it was just them again. Just Minho and the baby.

“I’m home,” he’d said quietly, rubbing soft circles into the material of your shirt, “Daddy’s sorry he’s late. It’s snowing outside, so I couldn't drive too fast.” He waited a few seconds before starting to sing, his voice soft, quiet enough that he wouldn’t wake you up:

펄, 펄, 눈이 옵니다

peol, peol, the snow is falling

하늘에서 눈이 옵니다

the snow is falling from the sky

하늘 나라 선녀님들이

the heavenly seonyeos

송이 송이 하얀 솜을

the white cotton

자꾸 자꾸 뿌려 줍니다

it keeps sprinkling

Minho had moved forward once he was done, resting his cheek against your stomach as gently as possible. He let his eyes focus on the snow falling outside the window, the city covered in a thin blanket of white.

“You’re gonna need a name soon, huh?” he asked, lightly drumming his fingers against your belly. “We found out you were a girl on the first snow, did you know that? My little snow girl. My—wait. Seola means snow girl. That’s pretty, right? Do you like that?”

Minho, not expecting a response, nearly screamed when he felt the softest of thumps against the skin of your stomach, just beneath the palm of his hand.

“What—” Kick.

“B-Babe.” He said, louder this time, sitting up straight to stare at your stomach with wide eyes. You stirred awake, shifting slightly to crack an eye open.

“Minho? You’re home? What are you—”

“Has she been kicking?”

You shook your head, pushing yourself up to rest your back against the headboard. “No, of course not, I would’ve told you if she did. Why? Did something—” You were cut off by the strongest kick yet, your hand flying to your stomach.

“Seola.” Minho had said again, his voice cracking halfway through when another kick came before he could even finish speaking.

From that moment on, Minho knew in his heart that your daughter’s name was always meant to be Seola. He’d talk endlessly about how he would always treat the first snow of the year like a second birthday, and he’d always make it a point to say her name whenever he was talking or singing to your belly.

Much like now, with his back turned to you, Minho’s voice is still as gentle as ever.

“Sometimes when the air is angry it makes electricity,” he says, swaying back and forth as Seola rests her cheek against his shoulder. Her eyes are droopy, heavy with sleep as Minho talks to soothe her back to bed. “And then the lightning makes the air really really hot, and it goes boom.” He pats her back a few times, shushing her when she brings a fist up to her face to rub it angrily. He hums a soft melody, something nonsensical, quiet enough to lull her to sleep but also loud enough to overpower the sound of heavy rain hitting the window.

You watch as he lays her back in her crib, black hair fanned out around her head as he places a warm hand on her stomach to keep some added weight on her body until he’s certain she’s sleeping deeply.

“Oh look,” you say from the doorway, making him jump, “You bored her back to sleep.”

Minho laughs, light and airy, walking over to wrap his arms around you and rest his cheek against your head.

“Jealous that she likes my voice more?”

Minho’s voice, still deep with sleep, rumbles beneath his chest, right where you have your face pressed into it. You take a deep breath, inhaling him as best as you can, his cologne mixing with the smell of baby powder and Seola’s soap.

“No, I just wish you would come back to bed now and bore me to sleep too.”

A hand runs up and down your back, Minho’s adam's apple bobs when he swallows too hard. “I wouldn’t have to if you stayed there like I told you to.”

“I just wanted to check on you,” you sigh, “Also it’s nice to see the two of you together. I don’t get to see it a lot, y’know?”

Minho stills on his feet, and you pull back in time to catch the ghost of a frown on his face.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, “I know. I’m—fuck, I have to be gone tomorrow too.” He runs a hand through his hair, and you can practically see the guilt worming its way into his head.

Determined to stop the inevitable self-loathing, you bring your hands up to cup his face, your thumbs running gently along the corners of his mouth. He melts into the touch immediately, closing his eyes and exhaling out of his nose.

“That’s not what I meant. I just like to cherish the time we have when all three of us are together, that’s all. This isn’t a ‘you versus me’ thing, okay? This is me and you making do with what we have.”

“Yeah,” he nods, “Yeah I know. Me and you.”

“Always.” You smile, leaning up to press your lips together.

With the thunder no longer rumbling overhead and the rain lighter than it had been earlier, you and Minho deem it safe enough to retreat into your bedroom without running the risk of Seola being woken up again.

“Do you want me to explain the force of gravity?” He whispers, playful but weak where his fatigue is starting to seep into his bones.

You laugh and tuck your face into his neck, his arms tightening around you on instinct. When you don’t answer, he knows that he doesn’t have to speak for you to drift off to sleep; knows that no matter what you’ll always be at home tucked into his side, and eventually lets sleep overtake him too.

When morning hits the sky is cloudy and the room is painted in a pale gray. The spot next to you is cold, sheets still tousled from sleep where Minho had been. You frown, glancing at the baby monitor on the nightstand that’s oddly quiet. It’s not normal for you to wake without the sounds of Seola beating your internal clock to it.

Your confusion only grows when you step into the hallway, the sounds of light snoring drifting out from the nursery. When you breach the doorway, you stop short, your heart doubling in size at the sight before you.

Minho is there, slumped against the side of the crib, his head leaning on one of the slats of wood and his arm shoved through the gap, Seola’s hand wrapped tightly around his finger. He must’ve gotten worried at some point in the night, scared that the rain would wake her again.

You inch forward to kneel beside him, running a hand through his hair and smiling when the touch makes his nose twitch. Seola’s own does the same when she sleeps, a little mole on the tip of her right nostril, just like her dad has on his left nostril. A direct reflection of one another; of love in its purest form.

On the floor beside him, Minho’s phone lays open:

To: Chan [2:45a.m.]

I won’t be in later

Find a way to manage without me

#lee know x reader #lee know fluff #lee know angst #skz x reader #skz fluff #skz angst #lee know fanfic #lee know fanfiction #lee know fic #skz fanfic #skz fanfiction #skz fic #stray kids fic #stray kids fanfic #stray kids fanfiction #dad lee know #lee know as a dad #dad!minho #dad!leeknow

1K notes · View notes