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The contractions started before dawn. Jimin woke to a slow ache that rolled through his body in steady waves. The room was dark and warm. He reached for the edge of the quilt and then for Yoongi. The mattress dipped as Yoongi turned toward him, already alert. Jimin knew that shape by the sound of a breath and the faint rustle that always came when Yoongi pushed himself up on one elbow.
“I think this is it,” Jimin whispered.
Yoongi’s palm settled over his belly. “How strong is it?”
“Enough to make me want to bite something,” Jimin said. The next wave gathered and he grabbed Yoongi’s wrist and held on. He breathed through it, counted slowly, and let the pain crest and pass. “It hurts in a differe way. Not like before. I think our girl is ready.”
At that word, their girl, the air changed. Jimin heard the shift in Yoongi’s voice and in the room itself. A quiet urgency filled the space. Water heated on the stove. Towels moved from the chair to the foot of the bed. The midwife arrived with careful steps and a calm hello that soothed Jimin’s nerves. Hands checked his pulse and belly. Voices took turns. Jimin did not see the faces moving around him, but he felt the shape of their care. He focused on the pressure of Yoongi’s thumb drawing small circles across the back of his hand.
It had taken them years to reach this point. There had been months where hope felt like a raw edge. They had learned to survive on small things. The scent of dried sea salt on Yoongi’s coat after a ride. The quiet of their porch at night. The soft weight of a neighbor’s baby who fell asleep on Jimin’s shoulder and left a wet spot on his shirt. They counted small details because the big dream kept slipping away. Every time they tried, it seemed to end with silence. They spoke quietly in kitchens. They held each other in empty hallways. Jimin wondered whether his body would ever offer him this gift, and whether his blindness would make him a lesser parent.
Yoongi had refused that fear each time it surfaced. He would coax Jimin’s hand over a cup of tea and say that being a father was more than eyes. It was patience. It was the way a voice softened when a child cried. It was attention that went past sight. Jimin wanted to believe him, and sometimes he did, but the ache of wanting did not always listen to reason.
Now it was happening. The ache had purpose. The clock did not matter. The windows did not matter. The only important sound was the steady rhythm of Jimin’s breathing and the way Yoongi kept time with him. The midwife spoke softly when she needed to. The rest belonged to Jimin and the life inside him.
He labored through the morning. He changed positions when told. He drank water. He cursed. He found the low sound that kept his mind steady. He pressed his forehead to Yoongi’s knuckles when the pain rose higher. He shook and panted and then let out a long groan. Between each wave, Yoongi rested a cool cloth along Jimin’s neck and whispered small facts to tether him to the room.
“You are doing well,” Yoongi said. “Your heartbeat is strong." Yoongi described their apartment. "The light is pale outside. Your favorite kettle is on the back of the stove." and then "The bed is warm.”
Jimin clung to those details. The light did not belong to him, but the warmth did. The smell of tea did. The brush of cotton did. The sound of Yoongi’s voice did.
When the time came to push, Jimin felt something shift inside him. The pressure curled low and deep. He braced his heels and bore down. The pain flared, bright and focused. He did not scream at first. He wanted to conserve strength. The second push dragged a cry from him. The third made him curse into Yoongi’s wrist. Sweat slid down his temple. The midwife counted in a level tone. Jimin bore down again and felt a burn that made him gasp.
“I can't,” he said.
“You can,” Yoongi answered. He kept his voice steady. His thumb pressed hard against Jimin’s palm. “You already are.”
Another push. Another breath. Jimin heard something change in the room. The midwife’s voice lifted. The pressure sharpened and then broke, replaced by a feeling that was not pain but stretch and release. A thin cry cut the air. It was sharp and insistent. It entered Jimin’s chest and filled a hollow that had been there for years.
He started to sob. He was shaking so hard he could barely hold on to Yoongi. The midwife moved with brisk care and then with a gentler slowness. A small weight was wrapped and lifted. A soft cloth brushed against Jimin’s belly, then the weight moved again. Yoongi made a sound that Jimin had never heard from him, something between a laugh and a sob.
“Is she alright,” Jimin asked. The words came out ragged.
“She is loud,” the midwife said with a smile in her voice. “That is a good sign.”
The bundle came to Yoongi first, and then Yoongi brought their daughter to the bed. The mattress dipped under new weight. Warmth radiated through the layers of cloth. Jimin reached out with both hands. He was afraid of pressing too hard. Yoongi placed their child in the cradle of his arms and guided Jimin’s fingers to the edge of the blanket.
“Careful of her head,” the midwife said, kind and precise.
Jimin’s hands found the curve of a small skull through the soft weave. He felt a pulse, rapid and bright.
He could not see her face. He could not see the crown of wet hair or the damp lashes.
He could smell new skin and cotton. He could hear small hiccups between breaths. He lowered his head and pressed his mouth to the cloth. Tears wet the blanket.
“Yoongi,” he whispered. “Tell me.”
Yoongi had already been looking. His gaze had soaked in every detail as if the world could take this from him if he blinked. He crouched by the bed so that his voice would be close. He swallowed and began slowly, as if he had to teach himself how to speak again.
“She is small,” he said. “Smaller than I imagined, but she fills my hands. Her hair is dark and pressed to her head. It curls at the edges where it dries. Her skin is pink along the cheeks. Her mouth is full and soft. That is yours. When she cries her lips make a shape I know. It is you, only gentler.”
Jimin smiled through tears and touched the side of the bundle. “What about her eyes,” he asked. “I want to know about her eyes.”
“They are mine,” Yoongi said, and the pride in his voice broke into another laugh. “Cat like. Sharp. She looks under her lashes already. She is not looking at anything yet, I know that, but it feels like she is. The corners lift a little. When she blinks I see a flash of stubbornness. That is me.”
Jimin’s breath caught. He pressed the bundle closer and rocked. He could picture the tilt of Yoongi’s eyes the way he had learned them with his thumb. The way his friends always talked about his gaze that Jimin never saw. He loved that shape because it lived in his hands. Knowing their child carried that shape filled him with a giddy relief.
“And her hands,” Jimin said. “Tell me about her hands.”
Yoongi took one tiny fist between his fingers and unfolded it with care. He placed the miniature palm on top of Jimin’s thumb.
“Her fingers are long,” he said. “They are like mine. Slender. She can wrap around my thumb already. Your fingers are short and stubby, my love. Soft and sturdy. Hers stretch past the knuckles in a showy way that matches nothing but me. She will play the piano if she wants. She will paint if she wants. She will point at the world and make it listen.”
Jimin laughed at that, surprised by the shape of his own joy. “Showy like you,” he teased. “Only with better timing.”
Yoongi choked on a sound that was not quite a laugh. He leaned in and kissed Jimin’s temple. He pressed his mouth there long enough for Jimin to feel the shape of it.
“She has your nose,” Yoongi added. “It is small and soft and round. I want to boop it but I am afraid of making her cry again. Her ears lie close to her head. The left one has a tiny fold at the top. I think it is going to smooth out as she grows. If it doesn't, I will kiss it often and make it proud.”
Jimin traced the outline of the head again, this time braver. He found the place where the ear must be and stroked that spot with his smallest finger. The baby made a small sound and stilled.
“She knows your touch,” Yoongi said. “She settled the second you laid a hand on her.”
“I feel like I have been waiting a hundred years,” Jimin said. “I feel like I only just opened my eyes.”
He shifted, careful of sore muscles, and the midwife helped him sit higher. The baby whimpered and Jimin’s heart leaped. He hushed without thinking. His voice went soft. He did not know the notes of any lullaby. He hummed anyway. The tune wandered, sweet and uneven. The little body relaxed in his arms. Another sound joined his hum. Yoongi did not know the melody either, but he found a second line and held it under Jimin’s. Their voices braided together without planning. The midwife moved around the bed and became quiet, as if some agreement had passed without words.
The day slipped forward. The kettle whistled and was pulled off the heat. A mug touched down on the side table. The midwife checked Jimin and the baby and found both of them steady. She gave instruction in simple sentences and wrote a few numbers on a card. Then the door clicked. They were alone.
Fatigue tempered the edges of Jimin’s joy. It did not dull it. He felt loose and sore and hungry. He also felt huge, in feeling. He held that softness against him and thought about every month where it had not worked. He thought about the night he admitted into Yoongi’s shirt that he was scared. Not of the pain. Not of the changes in his body. He was scared that his blindness would leave their child with less.
Yoongi had stopped him with a fingertip to his mouth. Then he set Jimin’s hand on his own chest and spoke slowly and clearly until Jimin believed him again.
“Sight is one way,” he had said. “It is not the only way. You feel the heat from a pan before I smell it. You hear the difference between my bad mood and my quiet mood without a word. You count steps without counting. Our child will have your attention. That is enough. That is more than enough.”
Those words lived in Jimin’s spine now. He would draw on them each time doubt returned. He would use them to build new words for their daughter. He wanted to tell her a story that did not begin with lack.
He brushed a knuckle across the baby’s cheek. The skin there felt ridiculously soft. He had held peaches that were rougher. He let her grip his finger again. Her hold felt fierce. He pictured the shape of Yoongi’s hand and felt a small shock when he realized he was holding a miniature of it.
“What should we call her?” he asked. His voice was sleepy now. He did not want to drift off before hearing Yoongi’s answer.
“I had a name in mind,” Yoongi said. He sounded shy and oddly young. “Only if you like it. Nari. It feels bright. It sits warm on my tongue.”
Jimin tried the sound. Nari. He said it again, this time close to the baby’s hair. She twitched as if the name tickled her ear.
“I love it,” he said. “Min Nari. Welcome home.”
Yoongi laughed again. He put his forehead against Jimin’s shoulder. The bed listed with his weight. Jimin felt the damp patch where Yoongi’s tears had soaked his shirt.
“Tell me more,” Jimin said after a while. “You said her eyes are sharp and cat like. Tell me how they look when she is not crying. Tell me what her mouth does when she sleeps. Tell me the way her cheeks move when she tries to root.”
Yoongi lifted the edge of the blanket and looked like a man memorizing scripture.
“She is quieter now,” he said. “Her lashes are sticking together in little spikes. They will dry soon and relax. The corners of her eyes tilt up just a little. When she stops fussing, the tilt is more obvious. Her mouth keeps opening. She is searching. Her tongue is small. She smacks a little and sighs when she finds nothing. Her cheeks round up when she tries to search, then relax when she gives up. She looks like she is thinking about a plan.”
They tried feeding. The first moments were messy and strange. Nari’s mouth landed where it should not. Jimin flinched, then adjusted with help from Yoongi’s steady hands. The latch caught. The pull was gentle and then stronger. Jimin let out a startled laugh, then a soft sound he had never made in his life. Relief spread through him, warm and heavy. Nari’s fingers opened and closed against his skin.
“You are doing well,” Yoongi said. He kissed the line where Jimin’s hair stuck to his forehead.
“Both of you.”
They fell into a quiet that felt different from sleep. Jimin rocked without realizing. Nari made small squeaks and snuffles. Yoongi lay next to them with his hand across both of them. The room held the hush that follows a storm.
“After all the trying,” Jimin murmured, almost to himself. “After every time we said maybe next month. I can't believe she is here.”
“I can,” Yoongi said. “I told you she would find us. I knew it even when I was angry at the world.”
“You never sounded angry,” Jimin said.
“I was,” Yoongi replied. “I tried not to show it. I did not want to add weight to your shoulders.”
“You never add weight,” Jimin said. “You carry it until I can lift it too.”
Yoongi pressed another kiss to his temple. “You are the strongest person I know.”
Jimin scoffed, but he smiled. “I don't feel strong.”
“That's because you used every ounce of strength to bring Nari to us,” Yoongi said. “You will feel strong again after you eat a mountain of seaweed soup.”
“A bowl will do,” Jimin said. He grinned. “Maybe two.”
They dozed. When Nari fussed, Jimin woke first. That would surprise their friends later. Everyone assumed Yoongi rose at the slightest sound. Jimin had always heard in a different way. He caught small changes in the air and soft noises that others missed. He changed a diaper under guidance and laughed when the wipe startled the pup into a glare that Yoongi claimed looked exactly like his own.
Afternoon light warmed the room. The midwife returned and found them calm. She checked his pup and wrote another note on the card. She showed Yoongi how to swaddle in a way that allowed the hands to move. She reminded them to sleep when they could. She looked at Jimin and asked how he felt. He answered honestly that he was sore and a little dazed, and also happy in a way that made his chest buzz. She smiled and told him all of that was normal.
After she left, Yoongi pulled a chair close and sat facing the bed. Jimin held Nari and listened to him talk. He described little things as if he were narrating a private film.
“She yawned,” Yoongi said. “It takes her whole face to yawn. Her tongue curls and her nose scrunches. Then she gives a small sigh. Her fists bounce when she hiccups. She is trying to stare. I know she is not really seeing, but it feels like she is trying to place me by shape.”
“Describe me to her,” Jimin said. “Not my face. Describe what you think she will know first.”
Yoongi thought for a moment, then nodded.
“She will know you by your voice,” he said. “You hum nonsense and it steadies the air. You laugh when you are tired, which confuses everyone but me. You always heat the cup before you pour. You count steps under your breath when you are anxious, then forget to count when you are home. You smell like oranges and vanilla and something warm that I can't name. When you hold her, your chest relaxes even if your shoulders don't. Your hands are short and stubby and perfect for holding on. She will twine her long fingers around them and never want to let go.”
Jimin’s mouth trembled. “Now describe you to her.”
“She will know me by the way I watch,” Yoongi said. “I pay attention to what others miss. I like my own quiet, but I will break it to make her smile. My hands are longer than yours. I show off without trying. I pretend not to care about small things, but I keep every small drawing anyone gives me. I have sharp, cat like eyes that used to make people nervous. Now they will make her proud.”
Jimin laughed softly. “You are good at this,” he said.
“I am good for you,” Yoongi replied. “I will learn to be good for her too.”
Evening crept in. They ate soup that a neighbor had left on the porch. Jimin only managed half a bowl before sleep tugged at him again. He resisted. He wanted to hold on to the sound of Narii’s small breaths and the sight he could not see but could hear in Yoongi’s voice. He wanted to store every word that told him who she was.
“Rest,” Yoongi said. “I will watch her. If she so much as wiggles, I will tell you exactly how.”
“Promise,” Jimin asked.
“Yes,” Yoongi said. “I promise. I will be your eyes. I will tell you every detail. When a curl falls across her forehead, you will know. When her lashes grow longer, you will know. When she learns to smile with her whole mouth, you will know. I won'tt miss a thing. Neither will you.”
Jimin let his head sink back. The pup shifted and made a content sound that squeezed his heart. He drifted with that sound in his ear and Yoongi’s promise tucked under his ribs. He slept in small pieces and woke in small pieces, each time finding that the world had not slipped. Their daughter was still there. Yoongi was still there. The house held three steady breaths.
Later, when night had settled and the street outside fell quiet, Jimin woke to the softest of sounds. It was not a cry. It was the start of one, quickly soothed. He blinked into his own kind of dark and turned toward the rustle. Yoongi was singing low. Jimin knew that voice. He smiled and listened.
“What does she look like now?” Jimin asked into the hush.
Yoongi’s answer came at once, as if he had been waiting for the question.
“She looks like wonder,” he said. “Her eyes are heavy. The corners still tilt. Her mouth is open just a little. A curl has dried along her temple and makes a small hook. Her fingers are splayed, ready to hold more than they can. She has my eyes and my long fingers. She has your mouth and your rounded nose. She is our proof.”
Jimin slid his hand along the blanket until he found the tiny palm again. Those fingers wrapped around his and held tight. He breathed out and felt the grip tighten.
“Hello, Nari,” he whispered. “Your Papa has sharp eyes. He sees what I can't. Your Appa has stubborn hands. I will hold you while he tells me the rest. Between us, you will be fully seen.”
He felt Yoongi’s smile without touching it. He heard it in the breath that came next.
“Welcome home,” Yoongi said.
Jimin closed his eyes and saw nothing. He felt everything. The weight on his arm. The slow rise and fall that meant sleep. The warm press of Yoongi’s knee against the mattress. The tiny grip that would shape the rest of his life. He listened to his family breathe and knew that sight had many forms.
He had one of them. Yoongi had another. Nari would learn both and make something new.
Through the dark, Jimin spoke a last quiet request.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “tell me again. From the top.”
“I will,” Yoongi said. “Every day. From the top to the end.”