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Mingi pushed open the front door, the sharp click of the lock echoing faintly in the quiet house. His right hand clutched a warm takeout bag, the scent of spicy pork and garlic wafting up from the tightly knotted handles, making his stomach rumble. Slung over his left shoulder was his black rehearsal backpack, heavy with a change of clothes and the exhaustion of a 12-hour day at the studio.
The moment the door clicked shut behind him, he exhaled long and deep, shoulders relaxing as he kicked off his sneakers with the toe of one foot. The only thing he wanted right now was to wrap his arms around his wife, kiss her forehead, feel her belly against his, and maybe fall asleep on the couch with her head on his chest and their baby kicking between them.
"Babe?" he called, voice low and affectionate as he dropped his keys into the dish by the door.
Silence.
He paused, brows knitting slightly. That was strange. Normally, even if she was upstairs or on the phone, she'd yell back a quick "in here!" or "hey, honey!" Something.
He walked further into the house, his footsteps soft against the hardwood floors. The living room was empty, but the television hummed softly, playing the rerun of a cooking show. A half-empty glass of Coke sat on the coffee table, the condensation puddling beneath it like a forgotten memory.
She'd definitely been here recently.
"Honey?" he tried again, louder this time, walking through the kitchen and flicking on the light.
The brightness cast sharp shadows across the tiled floor as he placed the takeout on the table, his backpack landing with a soft thud on one of the chairs. He listened again.
Still nothing.
A prickle of unease climbed the back of his neck.
"YN?" he called once more, making his way to the stairs with slower, more cautious steps. Something didn't feel right. Not urgent exactly, but... off.
He climbed the stairs one by one, listening hard for any sign of movement. Water running. A drawer closing. A hum. Anything.
But when he reached the top of the staircase and looked down the hall, his heart jolted.
And then stopped.
There she was.
YN.
His YN.
Pregnant—and radiant in a way that stole the breath from his lungs, even after all these months. Her belly full and round beneath a brightly colored floral moo moo that fell around her ankles like a curtain. A silk bonnet perched messily on her head. And her arm—her goddamn arm—was stretched dangerously high above her, a screwdriver clutched between her fingers as she balanced precariously on a ladder at least five feet off the ground.
She was changing a lightbulb.
Mingi's blood turned cold.
"What the—baby! Are you insane?" His voice cracked with panic as he rushed forward, grabbing the sides of the ladder instinctively to stabilize it. His heart pounded against his ribs like a war drum, every beat screaming what the hell are you doing?
Startled, YN looked down at him with wide eyes. "The bulb went out earlier today," she said, as if it were the most casual thing in the world.
He could barely believe what he was hearing.
"You could've waited till I got home!" His voice rose, teetering between anger and fear. "Get your ass down from there, YN. Now."
"I just need a second to—"
"Right now, YN Song," he said, his tone firmer than it had been in a long time. Too firm. But he couldn't help it. His hands were still gripping the ladder, knuckles white. His pulse was thunder in his ears.
She froze, and something in her eyes shifted. Her mouth opened slightly, like she wanted to argue—but then, just as quickly, she closed it again. Her gaze lingered on his face, searching for something—reassurance, maybe, or the softness she was used to from him.
But he didn't have it right now.
He was too scared.
Too shaken by the image of her falling, of something happening to her. Or their baby.
YN's shoulders sagged as she looked away and slowly began to climb down the ladder, one cautious step at a time. He was already there, hands steadying her from behind, one hand on her lower back, the other lightly guiding her arm. His touch was gentle, but charged with silent desperation.
When she reached the bottom, he let out a quiet breath, his hand instinctively reaching for hers.
But she didn't take it.
She stepped away without a word—her silence louder than anything she could have said—turned on her heel, and walked straight into their bedroom. The soft but definite click of the door closing behind her echoed in Mingi's chest like a gunshot.
He stood there, stunned, unmoving. The air around him felt thick, like it was holding its breath too. The adrenaline that had lit his nerves on fire just moments ago slowly began to cool, retreating and curling into something heavier—something bitter and sharp.
Regret.
"...Dammit," he whispered, jaw clenching as his arms dropped uselessly to his sides. His gaze stayed locked on the door, as though he could will it to open with just his guilt and longing.
It wasn't the door that haunted him, though. It was her eyes. That look she gave him right before she turned away.
It hadn't been anger. It hadn't even been shock.
It was pain. Hurt that settled quiet and deep in her expression like a bruise that didn't yet show on the surface. Like a ghost had brushed past her and chilled her to the bone.
He hadn't yelled—not really. But fear had laced his voice like steel, the kind that cuts without warning. And now she was in there, behind that door, alone.
Mingi stepped forward, his footsteps slow, cautious, as if the hallway itself might judge him. He stood in front of the closed door and let his knuckles knock gently—once, then twice.
"Sweets?" he said, voice softer than it had been all day. "I'm sorry... Can I come in so we can talk?"
For a long moment, there was only silence.
Then—a sniffle.
God. His heart fractured at the sound. A quiet, trembling exhale escaped his lips, followed by the faintest voice on the other side:
"...Yes."
He pushed the door open with care, as if opening too quickly might shatter whatever fragile peace still lived in the room. His eyes scanned the space immediately—soft lighting from the bedside lamp, the curtains pulled closed against the night. And there she was.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands resting still in her lap like she didn't know what to do with them. Her shoulders were slumped, her eyes downcast, thick lashes wet with fresh tears that trailed down her cheeks one after another.
His chest tightened painfully.
God, he was dumb.
He knew—he knew—how emotional pregnancy had been for her. How the smallest things sometimes felt overwhelming. How fiercely independent she'd always been, and how vulnerable this experience had made her feel.
And still, he reacted like that.
"Babe," he murmured, moving across the room and dropping to his knees in front of her. He didn't touch her—not yet—but rested his hands on his thighs, meeting her eyes gently.
"I'm so sorry, honey," he said. "I didn't mean to raise my voice like that. I didn't mean to scare you or hurt your feelings. I just—I saw you up there and my heart dropped. You're seven months pregnant. You and the baby are everything to me and I—I panicked. I wasn't thinking, I just... reacted."
His words tumbled out, raw and urgent, but she interrupted him, her voice soft and trembling, yet steady enough to land with weight.
"You didn't have to be rude about it."
He froze.
Her eyes lifted to meet his, and that softness was still there, but now it was laced with something more—something that trembled under the surface like a wounded flame.
"I didn't know when you were coming home," she continued, "and the light in the hallway—it gets really dark when it goes out. I didn't want to be up there all alone if something happened or if I needed something. I was scared too, just... in a different way."
Her voice cracked at the edges, breaking slightly as she looked away.
"I'm sorry, baby. I didn't know," Mingi said quickly, his voice catching.
"I know," she said, still not looking at him. "But I didn't want to ask you because... I didn't want to feel like a burden."
The words hit him like a slap. His heart seized.
"You're not," Mingi said instantly, the words leaving his mouth before he could even think them through. His voice cracked under the weight of urgency—under the sheer need to make her understand. "YN, baby—you've never, ever been a burden to me. Not for one second. Not with the pregnancy. Not before it. Not ever. You hear me?"
His voice was low but resolute, and his grip on her hands tightened just slightly as if anchoring her to the truth of what he said.
YN let out a shaky breath, like she'd been holding it in all day. Her shoulders sagged as her lip trembled, and she blinked hard—tears still caught in the corners of her eyes.
"I just..." she began softly, her voice almost a whisper. "I've felt so helpless lately."
The confession stung in his chest.
"You do everything," she said, glancing at him for the briefest moment before lowering her gaze again. "You cook for me. You clean. You won't even let me lift a grocery bag, let alone something heavier than a throw pillow. You check on me a hundred times a day. I know it's out of love—I know that, Mingi. And I'm grateful. But it also makes me feel like I'm just... watching my life from the sidelines. Like I'm not me anymore. And today, I just wanted to do one thing. One tiny thing. Something that didn't need permission or help or supervision. I just wanted to feel capable again."
Her voice cracked as she finished, and Mingi felt it break something open inside him. He stared at her—really stared—and in that moment, all he saw was his wife: the same YN who had once changed her own tire in the rain because she didn't want to wait two hours for a tow truck when he was away on tour, the woman who stood up for herself and everyone she loved, who moved through life on her own terms. And now? Now she was carrying their baby and quietly mourning pieces of herself she didn't know how to keep.
He swallowed hard.
"YN," he said gently, shifting forward, still on his knees before her. He reached up and wrapped her hands in his, lacing their fingers like a prayer. "I'm your husband. You don't have to ask me to do things for you. That's the job. That's the joy."
His eyes searched hers, steady and full of unflinching affection.
"Hell, if you needed me to breathe for you—I would. I do. Every single day. And the moment I asked you to be my girlfriend, years ago, I signed myself up for a lifetime of being Handy Manny, Fix-It Felix, Doc McStuffins, Bob the Builder, and whoever the hell else you need—especially when your car acts up and you won't kiss me because I've got oil on my face."
That drew a reluctant laugh from her, and her lips twitched despite the tears still clinging to her lashes.
"I mean it," he said, smiling now as he brushed his thumb across her knuckles. "You could need me to replace your kidney and I'd Google it and try. I'm yours, okay? I always have been."
YN let out another quiet laugh, her chest hitching. But Mingi wasn't done.
"And I am sorry for yelling at you," he added, sincerity rushing back into his voice. "Truly. I didn't mean it. It wasn't anger—it was shock. I came up those stairs, thinking I'd find you relaxing or maybe asleep—and there you were."
He paused, raising his eyebrows.
"Seven months pregnant. Balanced on a damn ladder. In a moo moo. Holding a screwdriver like some beautiful, bonnet-wearing acrobat trying to defy death. And my brain just—broke."
YN covered her mouth as she laughed again, fuller this time, and Mingi kept going, hands animated now.
"You don't understand—I saw you and my entire mind fast-forwarded to Final Destination-level chaos. I imagined you going, 'Okay, time to get down,' and then your foot getting caught in your moo moo. You trip, the screwdriver slips, you fall on your stomach, and then bam!—the baby's gone. And as if that's not traumatic enough, the screwdriver comes down, goes through your head, and now you're dead. Then what happens?"
She was fully laughing now, her hands on her belly, tears falling again—this time from laughter. But he leaned in closer, lips pressed into a mock-serious frown.
"Now I'm crying over your grave. I'm depressed. I'm spiraling. I'm on the list. You know what list I'm talking about—the Final Destination death list. I walk out the house, a piano falls on me, and boom. Family wiped out. Because you had to change a light bulb and some kid down the street decided playing with a Penny is cute."
"Oh my God," YN said, wiping her cheeks, giggling through her sniffles. "You're so dramatic."
"You knew this when you married me," he said smugly.
"And yet... here I am," she replied, finally meeting his eyes with a real smile—one that melted the last bit of tension in the air between them.
"y'know I have been thinking about Final Destination since we watched it two weeks ago," he admitted. "It lives in my mind rent-free. And then the other day I got stuck behind one of those trucks carrying lumber and I nearly had a damn panic attack."
"You're ridiculous," YN said through a giggle, eyes sparkling, though her voice dropped into something gentler the moment he took her hands again—his touch grounding her like a lifeline. His thumbs caressed the top of her knuckles, then swept slowly over her wedding ring as if reminding both of them what it stood for.
"But seriously," Mingi said, his voice low and honest now, all traces of teasing gone. He leaned closer, their foreheads nearly touching. "I'm sorry I scared you, YN. That wasn't fair to you. I let the fear speak louder than my love. And that's not how I want to protect you—not through panic or pressure. I'm gonna try harder. I will. I'll try to give you space to feel strong again. To feel like you. Like the force of nature I married. Because you're not fragile. I know that. I just..."
His voice faltered. He swallowed, drawing in a breath that felt like it reached into his ribs.
"I just love you so damn much. And now that we're growing this whole tiny human together, it's like my instincts have gone into overdrive times a billion. Every time you even sneeze too hard, my brain sounds an alarm. But I get it now. Me being protective can't come at the cost of you feeling powerless. I never want you to feel like I don't see you anymore—see who you are outside of all this."
YN's eyes shone again—but not from sadness this time. From the overwhelming tenderness swelling in her chest. She nodded slowly, silently, unable to find the right words yet, but clinging to his every one.
Mingi smiled softly, then held up his pinky, his expression shifting back into that boyish warmth she loved so much. "But in return," he added with exaggerated solemnity, "can you please promise me that if you're going to go on another wild-ass gymnastic mission—like climbing furniture with tools while seven months pregnant—you'll wait until I'm home next time? Let me be there. Let me spot you. I'm tall, you know. There's no reason for you to be dangling on ladders in a bonnet. Please. Because, YN, if anything happened to you or our little one... I swear, I wouldn't make it out of that."
He held out his hand to her, his pinky stretched, "Promise?"
He didn't say it dramatically. He meant it. Every syllable. And she could hear it—the faint quiver in his voice that he tried to cover with lightness. It struck her, how deep this man's love for her ran. How much of his world rested in her hands without her even realizing it.
YN glanced at his outstretched pinky, then up at his eyes—those warm, honey-dark eyes that had held her through every season of life. Slowly, reverently, she reached out and looped her pinky through his.
"Promise," she whispered, sealing it with the kind of look that only two people in love could truly understand.
They both leaned in at the same time, lips meeting halfway in a kiss that was gentle and forgiving. It wasn't just affection. It was home. It was reassurance. A quiet promise that even when they stumbled, they'd find their way back to each other—again and again.
Mingi moved first, wrapping his arms around her with care, guiding her to lean into his chest. She rested her head against his shoulder as if it had always belonged there. He lowered his hand instinctively to her belly, splaying his fingers over the curve that held their future. A small kick nudged against his palm.
"Oh," he breathed, smiling wide. "Was that—?"
"Yep," she said, smiling too. "That was her weighing in."
He grinned. "Baby agrees with Dad. Of course she does. She's smart."
YN rolled her eyes playfully. "She probably just wants food. She knows there's takeout waiting."
Mingi chuckled against her temple.
"Speaking of," YN said, lifting her head slightly, "since we've settled everything and sealed the promise with a kiss... can you fix the lightbulb now? She—" she pointed at her belly "—said you should. You did make me cry, after all."
Mingi sighed dramatically. "Wow. Betrayed by my own child. She's already taking your side."
"She has good taste," YN said with a smirk. "And better instincts than you."
"Fine, fine," he said, pushing himself up with a groan like he'd aged thirty years. "Yes, baby—and baby part two—I'll fix the lightbulb. You go downstairs, get comfy on the couch, maybe grab the food from the kitchen. I'll meet you there when I'm done being the household hero."
YN squinted suspiciously. "You sure you don't need me to spot you? I mean... with how hard you've been babying me lately, I wouldn't be surprised if some of my pregnancy belly started rubbing off on you." She patted his stomach teasingly as he stood.
Mingi gasped in mock offense. "Excuse me?"
"I'm just saying," she teased, eyes twinkling, "your hoodie's been looking a little... snug lately."
He poked out his stomach dramatically, rubbing it in circles. "Damn. Maybe I'm pregnant too. Sympathy bump."
YN cackled, shaking her head as she reached for his hand. He offered it easily, helping her off the bed with exaggerated gentleness, making sure she was steady on her feet.
"You got it?" he asked, even though he was still holding her.
She leaned into him briefly, her hand resting over his heart. "Yeah. I got it."
He bent down and kissed her belly before letting go. "Alright. Go downstairs and tell the baby the light situation is being handled by corporate."
"'Corporate' better not fall off that ladder," she called over her shoulder as she waddled toward the hallway, giggling to herself.
Mingi just shook his head with a smile, watching her go—his wife, his world, waddling away in her moo moo and bonnet, cracking jokes with their unborn daughter.
God, he loved that woman.
He turned to the ladder, grabbing the bulb with renewed purpose. "Alright," he muttered under his breath. "Let's get this over with before they both unionize and kick me out of the house."