Chapter Text
Kim Taerae is facing the biggest dilemma of his own marriage.
It's not about money, they're both doing well enough, with Taerae's neurosurgery resident salary and Gunwook's assistant professor income combined. It's not about in-laws either; both sets of parents adore their son-in-law like he's their own blood. It's not even about household chores, because they've long established a system where Gunwook cooks (decently and enthusiastically) and Taerae cleans (obsessively and effectively).
No, the dilemma is far more complicated than any of those trivial issues.
The dilemma is Park Gunwook himself.
Taerae stares at his husband across their breakfast table, watching as Gunwook pushes away his beloved morning grapefruit with a look of absolute disgust, as if the innocent citrus fruit has personally offended his entire ancestral line.
"Babe," Taerae starts carefully, "you love grapefruit. You literally bought a whole bag of them three days ago."
Gunwook's face turns slightly green. "The smell. Taerae, oh my god, the smell. Can you—can you just—" He makes frantic shooing motions with his hands. "Get it away from me. Please. I'm begging you."
Taerae quickly removes the offending fruit, bewildered. This is the same man who once ate an entire grapefruit in one sitting while lecturing Taerae about citric acid's molecular structure. The same man who insisted on grapefruit-scented hand soap for their bathroom.
"Are you feeling okay?" Taerae reaches across the table to feel Gunwook's forehead. No fever. "Did you eat something bad?"
"I'm fine," Gunwook insists, though he still looks vaguely nauseated. "I just... I don't want sour things right now. Do we have any honey butter chips? Or those chocolate chip cookies from the bakery? Or both? Can we have both?"
Taerae blinks. "For breakfast?"
"Please?" Gunwook's eyes go wide and pleading, and Taerae feels his resolve crumbling like a sandcastle at high tide. This is nothing new—Gunwook has always had a sweet tooth that could rival a kindergartener's, and Taerae has always been hopelessly weak to those pouty puppy eyes.
But there's something different about this. Something that makes Taerae's neurosurgeon brain start cataloging symptoms like he's on rounds.
Symptom one: sudden food aversion.
"Sure, baby," Taerae says softly, getting up to retrieve the requested items from their pantry. "Whatever you want."
Gunwook beams at him, and for a moment, everything feels normal again. Until Taerae notices how Gunwook's usually fitted t-shirt seems a bit snugger around the middle, the fabric pulling slightly where it used to cover perfectly those abs that Taerae has spent many appreciative hours (or years) admiring.
Symptom two: weight gain.
The thing is, Taerae isn't a paranoid person by nature. As a neurosurgery resident, he's trained to be logical, methodical, and evidence-based. He doesn't jump to conclusions. He doesn't rush things.
Except when it comes to Park Gunwook, his husband of two years, his boyfriend of five years before that, and his entire heart walking around outside his body in the form of a 184cm physics professor with terrible handwriting and an even worse sense of direction.
So when Gunwook shows strange behaviors, Taerae notices. And when Taerae notices, he analyzes. And when Taerae analyzes, he overthinks.
It starts innocently enough.
They're watching a nature documentary—Gunwook's choice, because he finds physics parallels in everything, even in the migration patterns of monarch butterflies. Taerae is exhausted from a 16-hour shift, barely keeping his eyes open, when he feels Gunwook shift closer on the couch.
This is normal. They're cuddly. They've always been cuddly.
What's not normal is how Gunwook practically climbs into Taerae's lap, wrapping his long limbs around Taerae's smaller frame like an overgrown bear, burying his face in Taerae's neck with a satisfying sigh that sounds almost like a purr.
"Wookie?" Taerae runs his fingers through Gunwook's hair automatically, confused but not complaining. "You okay, baby?"
"Mmm." Gunwook nuzzles closer, seemingly trying to merge their bodies at a molecular level. "Missed you."
"I was only gone for one day."
"Too long." Gunwook's voice is muffled against Taerae's skin, petulant in a way that makes Taerae's heart squeeze. "You're always at the hospital. I hate it."
Taerae frowns slightly. Gunwook has always been supportive of his career, understanding of the brutal resident hours. Sure, he gets clingy sometimes—they both do—but this feels... different. More intense. Almost desperate in its neediness.
Symptom three: increased clinginess.
"Wookie, I can't exactly quit neurosurgery," Taerae says gently, still stroking Gunwook's hair in soothing patterns. "We talked about this. Just two more years and-"
"I know, I know." Gunwook sighs dramatically. "I'm being unreasonable. Ignore me. I'm just-I don't know. I just want you close all the time lately."
Before Taerae can analyze this statement further, Gunwook is kissing him, sweet and deep and perfect, and all thoughts of symptoms and strange behavior evaporate like morning dew under summer sun.
At least until later that night, when Taerae tries to initiate something more, his hands sliding under Gunwook's shirt, mapping familiar territory with growing tension, and Gunwook-
Gunwook pulls away.
Taerae freezes, confused. "Wookie?"
"I'm—sorry, I'm just—" Gunwook won't meet his eyes, a flush spreading across his cheeks that has nothing to do with arousal. "I'm really tired tonight? Rain check?"
Taerae immediately backs off, because consent is consent and he'd rather die than make Gunwook uncomfortable. "Of course, baby. No problem."
Except it is kind of a problem, because in their years together, Gunwook has never turned down intimacy. Ever. Taerae is usually the one who's too exhausted from hospital shifts, while Gunwook has the energy of a golden retriever puppy with the impressive energy to match.
Symptom four: decreased interest in physical intimacy.
Taerae lies awake that night, long after Gunwook has fallen asleep-fitfully, tossing and turning, mumbling incoherently about quantum mechanics and chocolate cake-and tries not to panic.
"Dr. Kim, are you listening?"
Taerae snaps back to attention, realizing his attending is staring at him expectantly in the middle of rounds. "Yes, Dr. Sung. The patient in bed three needs a follow-up CT scan to assess the subdural hematoma."
Dr. Sung narrows his eyes but nods, apparently satisfied that Taerae hasn't completely lost the plot. They move on to the next patient, but Taerae can feel his gaze returning to him periodically throughout the morning.
His mind keeps drifting back to Gunwook. To the way his husband had barely touched his breakfast again, pushing away the kimchi fried rice Taerae had made in favor of stealing Taerae's sweet red bean bread. To the way Gunwook had groaned about back pain as he got dressed, pressing his hands to his lower back like a man three times his age. To the way he'd hugged Taerae goodbye at the door with such fierce intensity that Taerae had almost been late for rounds.
Something is wrong. Something is definitely wrong.
But what?
Taerae's mind wanders around the possibilities from clinical perspective:
Stress-related symptoms? Possible. But Gunwook loves his job, and the semester has been going smoothly according to his last department meeting rant (which Taerae had listened to attentively, understanding perhaps thirty percent of the actual physics content but one hundred percent of the academic politics drama).
Depression? Unlikely. Gunwook has been more emotional lately, sure, but not in a way that suggests clinical depression. If anything, he's been more expressive, crying at commercials and laughing at jokes that aren't particularly funny.
Physical illness? Taerae's stomach clenches at the thought. What if it's something serious? What if Gunwook has been hiding symptoms? What if—
"Dr. Kim." Dr. Sung's voice cuts through his thoughts again. "My office. Now."
Oh no.
Taerae sits in Dr. Sung's office, feeling remarkably like a student called to the principal's office rather than a third-year neurosurgery resident. Dr. Sung studies him over his coffee mug, his expression unreadable.
"You're distracted," he finally says. It's not a question.
"I'm sorry, Dr. Sung. It won't happen again."
"Is everything alright at home?"
Taerae hesitates. Dr. Sung is his mentor, but he's also intimidating as hell, and discussing his marriage feels too personal for this office environment.
But then again, maybe an outside perspective would help.
"My husband has been acting... strange," Taerae admits slowly. "He's having food aversions, mood swings, weight gain, back pain, sleep disturbances, increased clinginess—" He stops abruptly, realizing he's listing symptoms like he's presenting a case study.
Dr. Sung's expression shifts into something Taerae can't quite read. Is that... amusement? "I see. And how long has this been going on?"
"Maybe three weeks? A month?" Taerae runs his hand through his hair, frustrated. "I'm worried it might be something serious. Should I convince him to get checked out? He hates doctors, present company excluded, obviously—but if it's something that needs treatment—"
"Dr. Kim," Dr. Sung interrupts gently, setting down her coffee mug. "Has it occurred to you that your husband might be experiencing sympathetic pregnancy symptoms?"
Taerae blinks. "Sympathetic—what?"
"Couvade syndrome. It's when a partner experiences pregnancy-like symptoms in response to their significant other's pregnancy." Dr. Sung tilts his head meaningfully. "Sometimes the pregnant person doesn't even realize they're pregnant yet, but their partner's body responds anyway."
The words hit Taerae like a physical blow. He sits there, stunned, his brain simultaneously racing and completely blank.
Pregnant. Him. Pregnant.
"I—" Taerae starts, then stops. "I can't be. We've been careful. Mostly. I mean—oh my god."
They haven't been that careful. Not recently. Not in the past few months, when Taerae's IUD had expired and he'd kept meaning to schedule an appointment to get a new one but had been so swamped with resident duties that he'd kept pushing it off, and they'd relied on other methods, except for that one weekend when they'd gone to Jeju Island for their anniversary and had been perhaps a bit too enthusiastic and careless and—
Oh my god.
"I think," Dr. Sung says, and he's definitely amused now, "you should take a pregnancy test, Dr. Kim."
Taerae does not take a pregnancy test immediately. Instead, he spends the next three days in a state of growing anxiety, jumping between denial and panic.
Meanwhile, Gunwook's symptoms only intensify, which would be funny if Taerae wasn't having a quiet existential crisis.
On Tuesday, Taerae comes home to find Gunwook crying on the couch, clutching a throw pillow to his chest.
"Wookie?" Taerae drops his bag and rushes over. "Baby, what's wrong? Are you hurt?"
"The-the-" Gunwook hiccups through his tears, gesturing at the TV where a commercial for pet adoption is playing. "The puppies, Taerae. They don't have homes. They're so small and lonely—"
"Oh, sweetheart." Taerae gathers Gunwook into his arms, torn between concern and the hysterical urge to laugh. "The puppies are going to find homes. That's the whole point of the commercial."
"But what if they don't?" Gunwook wails into Taerae's shoulder. "What if nobody wants them and they're sad forever?"
Symptom five: emotional volatility.
Taerae holds him tighter, rubbing soothing circles on Gunwook's back. His husband feels warm and solid and real, and the thought that this might all be because of something growing inside Taerae—
He pushes the thought away. He's not ready to face it yet.
On Wednesday, Gunwook calls Taerae at the hospital three times during his shift. The first time is to ask if Taerae can pick up more honey butter chips on the way home. The second time is to ask if Taerae remembers where they keep the spare batteries for the remote. The third time is just to say "I miss you" in the smallest, most vulnerable voice Taerae has ever heard.
"I miss you too, baby," Taerae says softly, hiding in a supply closet because he can't have this conversation in the middle of the resident's office. "I'll be home in four hours, okay?"
"Four hours is so long," Gunwook complains, but there's a smile in his voice now. "What am I supposed to do for four hours?"
"You're a physics professor, Wookie. I'm sure you can find something to occupy your massive brain."
"My massive brain only wants to think about you."
Taerae's heart does something complicated in his chest. "You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
"I really do."
After they hang up, Taerae leans against the supply closet shelves and tries to breathe normally. His hand unconsciously moves to his stomach, flat and unchanged beneath his scrubs.
Could there really be something-someone-in there?
On Thursday, Taerae wakes up at 2 AM to find Gunwook's side of the bed empty. Panic seizes him immediately, and he stumbles out of bed, searching their apartment until he finds Gunwook in the kitchen, illuminated by the refrigerator light, eating ice cream directly from the container.
"Wookie? Why didn't you wake me up?"
Gunwook startles, dropping the spoon with a clatter. "I didn't want to bother you. You need sleep."
"And you don't?" Taerae moves closer, noting the dark circles under Gunwook's eyes, the exhaustion written in every line of his body. "Baby, how long have you been having trouble sleeping?"
"I don't know. A couple weeks?" Gunwook sets down the ice cream container—chocolate chip, Taerae notes, which used to be Taerae's favorite until Gunwook apparently claimed it. "I just keep waking up uncomfortable. My back hurts, or my legs cramp, or I have to pee, or I'm too hot, or too cold, or—" He cuts himself off with a frustrated sigh. "I'm a mess. I don't know what's wrong with me."
Taerae's heart cracks clean in half. "Nothing's wrong with you. You're perfect."
"I'm clingy and emotional and my body feels weird and I keep crying at commercials like a child." Gunwook's voice wavers. "You must think I'm being ridiculous."
"Never." Taerae closes the distance between them, cupping Gunwook's face in both hands. "You could never be ridiculous to me. I love every part of you, including the part that cries at puppy commercials."
Gunwook's laugh is wet and shaky. "Even the part that's gotten weirdly obsessed with sweets?"
"Especially that part. Although I am mourning the loss of my chocolate chip ice cream privileges."
"I'll buy you your own container," Gunwook promises, leaning down to press his forehead to Taerae's. "I'm sorry I'm being so strange lately."
"You're not strange. You're just..." Taerae swallows hard. "You're just going through something. And we'll figure it out together, okay? We always do."
They stand there in the kitchen, wrapped around each other, lit by the refrigerator's glow. Gunwook's hands rest on Taerae's hips, thumbs rubbing absent circles that make Taerae want to simultaneously laugh and cry.
If Dr. Sung is right-if Taerae is actually pregnant-then Gunwook's body is responding to something Gunwook doesn't even consciously know about yet. His husband's body is preparing for fatherhood before his mind has caught up.
It's bizarre. It's impossible. Yet it's the most romantic thing Taerae has ever heard.
"Come back to bed," Taerae whispers. "I'll rub your back until you fall asleep."
"You're too good to me."
"Impossible. I could never be good enough for you."
On Friday, Taerae breaks.
He's in the hospital cafeteria, picking at a sad-looking sandwich while his friend and fellow resident, Dr. Seok Matthew, chatters about his latest surgery. Taerae is barely listening, his mind circling the same thoughts it's been circling for days now.
"—and then Dr. Yang said my suturing technique was impressive, which, you know, coming from him is basically like—Taerae, are you even listening to me?"
"Sorry." Taerae sets down his sandwich. "I'm distracted."
"No kidding. You've been weird all week." Matthew leans forward, concerned. "What's going on? Is everything okay with Gunwook?"
And just like that, it all comes spilling out. The symptoms. The strange behavior. Dr. Sung's theory about Couvade syndrome. The possibility that Taerae might be pregnant and doesn't even know it.
Matthew listens with increasingly wide eyes, and when Taerae finally finishes his rambling confession, Matthew says, "So... have you taken a test?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because—" Taerae stops, realizing he doesn't have a good answer. "Because I'm scared?"
"Of what? Being pregnant?"
"Of everything changing." Taerae's voice comes out smaller than he intends. "We're not ready. I'm still a resident, Gunwook's career is just taking off, we live in a tiny apartment, we can barely take care of ourselves—"
"Taerae." Matthew reaches across the table to grip Taerae's hand. "You're spiraling. First things first: take the test. Know for sure. Then you can freak out properly with actual information instead of hypothetical panic."
Taerae knows Matthew is right. Of course he is. But the thought of taking that test, of seeing those results, of having to face reality instead of hiding in uncertainty—
"What if I'm a terrible father?" Taerae whispers.
"Then you'll be the first terrible father who successfully performs neurosurgery, which honestly would be impressive." Matthew squeezes his hand. "But you won't be. You're going to be amazing. You're kind and patient and so stupidly in love with your husband that it makes the rest of us nauseous. Any kid would be lucky to have you as a parent."
Taerae feels his eyes burning with tears he refuses to shed in the hospital cafeteria. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise. You've just been too busy being a neurosurgery hotshot to notice." Matthew grins. "Now go. Take the test. And then call me immediately with the results because I'm emotionally invested now."
Taerae buys three pregnancy tests from three different pharmacies because he's nothing if not thorough. He hides them in his work bag like contraband, his heart racing every time he thinks about them sitting there, waiting.
When he gets home that evening, Gunwook is napping on the couch, curled up with one of Taerae's hoodies clutched to his chest like a security blanket. He looks young like this, peaceful, vulnerable in a way that makes Taerae's chest ache with affection.
Taerae could wake him up. Could tell him about the tests, about Dr. Choi's theory, about everything that's been spinning through his mind for the past week. They could take the tests together, face the results as a team.
But Gunwook looks so tired, and Taerae is so scared, and he wants—needs—to know first. Needs to process this alone before he can share it.
So he tiptoes to the bathroom, closes the door quietly, and opens the first test with shaking hands.
The instructions are simple. Pee on the stick, wait three minutes, read the results. Easy. Clinical. Except Taerae's hands are trembling so badly he almost drops the test twice.
He forces himself through the motions with the mechanical precision he's developed through years of medical training. When all three tests are lined up on the bathroom counter, he sets a timer on his phone and sits on the edge of the bathtub to wait.
Three minutes have never felt longer.
Taerae's mind races through possibilities, scenarios, futures that branch out like neural pathways. A positive result means everything changes. Their carefully planned life, their timeline, their whole world—shifted by something smaller than a poppy seed.
But also: a baby. Their baby. A tiny person who would be half him and half Gunwook, who would inherit Gunwook's smile and maybe Taerae's eyes, who would grow up surrounded by love and physics textbooks and terrible cooking and late-night medical journals.
The timer goes off.
Taerae stares at it for a long moment before standing up, his legs feeling distinctly wobbly. He approaches the counter like it might explode, and then he looks down at the tests.
Positive.
Positive.
Positive.
All three of them, unmistakable, definitive, real.
Taerae sinks back onto the edge of the bathtub, the tests clutched in one hand, his other hand pressed to his stomach where apparently a tiny cluster of cells has taken up residence and decided to completely upend his entire existence.
"Oh my god," he whispers to the empty bathroom. "Oh my god."
He's pregnant.
He's actually, genuinely, really pregnant.
And Gunwook-sweet, clueless, sympathetic Gunwook-has been experiencing all these symptoms because his body somehow knew before either of them did.
Taerae starts laughing, slightly hysterical, tears streaming down his face. This is insane. This is the most absurd, ridiculous, perfect thing that's ever happened to him.
He's going to be a father.
They're going to be fathers.
"Taerae?" Gunwook's voice comes through the door, groggy with sleep. "Baby, are you okay? I heard laughing. Or crying? Are you crying?"
Taerae wipes his face hastily, trying to compose himself. "I'm fine, Wookie. Just—give me a minute?"
But Gunwook, being Gunwook, doesn't give him a minute. The door opens and Gunwook shuffles in, still wearing Taerae's hoodie, his hair adorably rumpled from his nap.
"You're crying." Gunwook's face crumples with immediate concern. "What's wrong? Did something happen at the hospital? Are you—" His eyes drop to the tests in Taerae's hand, and he freezes. "Are those—"
"Pregnancy tests," Taerae confirms, his voice wobbling. "They're positive. All three of them."
Gunwook stares at him. Then at the tests. Then back at him. His mouth opens and closes several times without any sound coming out, reminding Taerae vividly of a confused fish.
"You're pregnant," Gunwook finally manages.
"I'm pregnant."
"You're—" Gunwook's hand moves to his own stomach, an unconscious gesture that makes everything click into place. "Oh my god. I have Couvade syndrome."
Despite everything, Taerae laughs wetly. "You've heard of it?"
"I'm a physicist, not a barbarian. Of course I've heard of it." Gunwook moves closer, his eyes never leaving Taerae's face. "You're actually pregnant. With our baby. Our baby."
"Apparently so." Taerae looks up at him, trying to read his expression. "I know we didn't plan this. I know the timing is terrible. I know we're not ready and we probably should have been more careful and—"
Gunwook cuts him off with a kiss, deep and sweet and so full of emotion that Taerae forgets how to breathe. When they finally break apart, Gunwook's eyes are shining with tears.
"I love you," Gunwook says fiercely. "I love you so much. And I already love our baby. Even if they're currently the size of a sesame seed and causing me to cry at commercials."
"I love you too." Taerae cups Gunwook's face, thumbs brushing away the tears tracking down his husband's cheeks. "But Wookie, are you sure? This is huge. This changes everything."
"Of course it changes everything. We're having a baby." Gunwook's smile is radiant, incandescent, like he's just solved an impossible equation. "The best possible change."
"Even though I'm still a resident and you're an assistant professor and we live in a shoebox and can barely adult on our own?"
"Especially because of all that." Gunwook kneels down so he's eye-level with Taerae, his large hands coming to rest on Taerae's thighs. "We'll figure it out. Together. Like we always do."
Taerae feels something release in his chest, tension he didn't realize he'd been carrying for the past week. "You're not scared?"
"Terrified," Gunwook admits easily. "But also excited. And happy. And so in love with you I can barely stand it." He pauses, then adds sheepishly, "Also, this explains so much about why I've been such a mess lately."
Taerae laughs, properly this time, the sound bubbling up from deep in his chest. "Dr. Sung suggested it might be Couvade syndrome. That's what made me take the tests."
"Dr. Sung knows you're pregnant before I do?" Gunwook's pout is immediate and pronounced. "I'm wounded. Betrayed. My masculinity is threatened."
"Your masculinity is fine, you overgrown baby."
"I'm your overgrown baby." Gunwook shifts closer, his hands moving to rest tentatively on Taerae's still-flat stomach. "Can I—is this okay?"
Taerae covers Gunwook's hands with his own, warmth spreading through his entire body. "More than okay."
They stay like that for a long moment, Gunwook kneeling on the bathroom floor, Taerae sitting on the bathtub edge, their hands layered over the place where their baby is growing, impossibly tiny and impossibly real.
"How far along?" Gunwook finally asks.
"I don't know exactly. I'll need to see an actual OB to confirm, but based on timing..." Taerae does quick mental math. "Maybe five weeks? Six?"
"Jeju Island," Gunwook says with certainty. "Anniversary weekend. The hotel with the ocean view and the absolutely terrible breakfast buffet."
Taerae flushes, remembering. They'd barely left the room that weekend, too caught up in each other to care about tourist attractions or proper meals. "That was a good weekend."
"The best weekend. We made a person." Gunwook's voice is full of wonder. "Our baby was conceived during the best weekend of our lives. That's romantic as hell."
"You're such a sap."
"You married me knowing this."
"Worst decision of my life," Taerae teases, carding his fingers through Gunwook's hair.
"Take it back."
"Make me."
Gunwook rises up to kiss him again, softer this time, gentle and reverent like Taerae is something precious and breakable. Which is ridiculous—Taerae performs neurosurgery for a living, he's not fragile—but he lets himself melt into it anyway, lets himself be cherished.
When they break apart, Gunwook rests his forehead against Taerae's, his hands still on Taerae's stomach. "We should celebrate. I should cook dinner—wait, no, I should definitely not cook dinner. We should order from that Italian place you love. And get dessert. Definitely dessert."
"Wookie, you're the one with the cravings. What do you want?"
"Everything sweet in a five-kilometer radius," Gunwook says immediately, then looks bashful. "Is that normal? Is my body going to be weird like this the whole time?"
"Probably." Taerae grins at his husband's dismayed expression. "Welcome to sympathetic pregnancy, babe. You're along for the whole ride."
"How long does it last?"
"However long I'm pregnant. So... seven and a half more months?"
Gunwook makes a noise of pure distress. "My abs. Taerae. My beautiful abs."
"Were never as important as you thought they were," Taerae assures him, patting Gunwook's slightly softer stomach with mock sympathy. "Besides, I think dad bod suits you."
"I'm going to be a dad," Gunwook says, like the reality is just now hitting him. "Holy shit. I'm going to be someone's dad."
"You're going to be the best dad," Taerae says with utter certainty. "Even if you do cry at puppy commercials."
"Especially because I cry at puppy commercials. Emotional availability is important."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
Gunwook pulls back to look at him properly, and his expression is so soft, so full of love that Taerae feels it like a physical touch. "I can't believe we're having a baby."
"Neither can I." Taerae glances down at the positive tests, still clutched in his hand. "This is really happening."
"This is really happening," Gunwook echoes, and then he's standing up, pulling Taerae to his feet, wrapping him in the kind of full-body hug that Taerae has come to associate with Gunwook's biggest emotions. "We're having a baby, Tae. Our baby."
Taerae buries his face in Gunwook's chest—well, as much as he can given their height difference—and breathes in the familiar scent of his husband's cologne mixed with laundry detergent and something uniquely Gunwook. This is home. This is safety. This is love in its purest form.
"I'm scared," Taerae admits into the fabric of his own hoodie that Gunwook is still wearing. "What if I mess this up? What if I'm not good enough?"
"Impossible." Gunwook's voice is firm, his arms tightening around Taerae. "You're brilliant and kind and capable of literally operating on people's brains. You can handle a baby."
"Brains are easier than babies. Brains don't scream or need diaper changes or—"
"Taerae." Gunwook pulls back just enough to look at him. "Stop catastrophizing. We have months to prepare. Months to learn and plan and probably panic appropriately. But right now, in this moment, can we just be happy? Can we just enjoy this?"
Taerae takes a shaky breath, then nods. "Yeah. Okay. Happy. I can do happy."
"Good. Because I'm happy enough for both of us right now, and I need you to catch up." Gunwook's grin is infectious, all teeth and crinkled eyes and pure joy. "We're having a baby, Tae. A tiny person who's going to call us dad and who we're going to love so much it's probably going to be embarrassing."
Despite his fears, despite his anxiety, despite everything, Taerae feels his own smile growing to match Gunwook's. "We are pretty embarrassing already."
"We're going to be even worse as parents. We're going to be those parents who have a million photos and cry at every milestone and probably embarrass our kid at school events."
"Absolutely mortifying," Taerae agrees, but he's laughing now, the tension finally draining from his shoulders. "Our poor child."
"Our poor, very loved child," Gunwook corrects. He slides his hands down to lace his fingers with Taerae's, squeezing gently. "So. Italian food? Celebration dinner?"
"And dessert?"
"Obviously. I'm eating for two now, apparently, even though the baby isn't even in my body, which is biologically fascinating and also deeply weird."
Taerae laughs again, and it feels good, feels right, feels like maybe everything is going to be okay after all. "Come on, you ridiculous physicist. Let's go order so much food that the delivery person judges us."
"They already judge us. We're their most frequent customers."
"Fair point."
They make their way to the living room, still holding hands, and Taerae settles on the couch while Gunwook pulls out his phone to place the order. But before he can start scrolling through the menu, Taerae tugs him down onto the couch beside him.
"Wait," Taerae says softly. "Just... sit with me for a minute? Before we call anyone or plan anything or think about logistics? I just want to sit with you and let this be real."
Gunwook immediately abandons his phone, tucking himself against Taerae's side like he's been doing all week—except now it makes perfect sense, now it's not strange at all but rather the sweetest thing Taerae has ever experienced. His husband's body has been trying to tell them something all along.
"This is real," Gunwook murmurs, his hand finding Taerae's stomach again like a magnet. "There's a tiny human in there. With your smile, probably. And hopefully my height because, babe, I love you, but you're so small."
"I'm average height! You're just a giant."
"A giant who's having a baby with the love of his life." Gunwook presses a kiss to Taerae's temple. "How did I get this lucky?"
"Pretty sure I'm the lucky one. You're taking this surprisingly well for someone who just found out he's been sympathy-pregnant for a month without knowing it."
"Are you kidding? This is the coolest thing my body has ever done. I'm biologically connected to our baby even though they're not inside me. That's incredible. That's—" Gunwook pauses, his physicist brain clearly spinning up. "I wonder what the mechanism is. Is it pheromones? Hormones? Some kind of psychological-physiological feedback loop?"
"Wookie."
"Right. Sorry. Not the time for science." But Gunwook still looks fascinated, his eyes bright with curiosity. "Although you have to admit it's interesting."
"It's very interesting," Taerae agrees indulgently. "You can research it all you want. After we eat."
"After we eat," Gunwook confirms, but he doesn't move to grab his phone again, seemingly content to just hold Taerae and occasionally stare at Taerae's stomach like it's performing miracles. Which, technically, it is.
They sit in comfortable silence for a while, the evening light filtering through their apartment windows, painting everything in shades of gold. Taerae thinks about all the things that need to happen next—doctor's appointments, telling their families, preparing their tiny apartment for an even tinier person, figuring out how to balance his residency with impending fatherhood—but for now, none of that matters.
Right now, it's just them. Taerae and Gunwook and the little sesame seed-sized promise of their future.
"Hey," Gunwook says suddenly. "When did your IUD expire? Can we figure out how far along you actually are?"
Taerae does the mental math, counting back through calendar months in his head. "It expired in... oh god, it expired in late March. And it's almost May now, so if Jeju was—" He pauses, recalculating. "I'd be about five weeks. Maybe a little more."
"Five weeks." Gunwook's voice is reverent. "So you're due in... January? Early January?"
"If my math is right, probably late December or early January, yeah."
"A New Year's baby. That's perfect. New year, new life, new tiny person to love." Gunwook sounds entirely too pleased with this cosmic timing. "Although, wait—that means you'll be huge and uncomfortable during the holidays. Is that okay?"
"As opposed to being huge and uncomfortable at some other time?" Taerae teases. "I think I'll manage, Wookie."
"I know, but I'll be huge and uncomfortable too, probably. We'll be a matched set of pregnant-looking men waddling around Seoul in December." Gunwook sounds delighted by this prospect. "We're going to get so many stares."
"We already get stares. We're both men who are married to each other and stupidly affectionate in public."
"Valid point." Gunwook shifts to look at Taerae directly, his expression suddenly serious. "Are you okay? Really okay? I know I'm being all excited and goofy, but this is happening to your body. You're the one who has to actually be pregnant. How are you feeling about all of this?"
Taerae takes a moment to really check in with himself. The panic from earlier has mostly subsided, replaced by something that feels like cautious excitement mixed with bone-deep terror mixed with overwhelming love. "I'm scared," he admits. "But also happy? And nervous. And excited. And worried about whether I can handle residency while pregnant. And concerned about money and space and all the practical things. But underneath all of that..." He places his hand over Gunwook's, both of them now resting on his stomach. "I'm so happy, Wookie. So unbelievably happy."
"Yeah?" Gunwook's eyes are suspiciously shiny.
"Yeah." Taerae leans up to kiss him, slow and sweet. "We're having a baby. Our baby. How could I not be happy about that?"
"You're going to make me cry again," Gunwook warns, his voice thick with emotion. "These stupid sympathy hormones or whatever are turning me into a mess."
"You've always been a mess. I love that about you."
"I love everything about you," Gunwook says simply. "Even your terrible habit of leaving your socks all over the apartment."
"Even your complete inability to remember where you put your phone."
"Even your insistence on watching surgery videos during dinner."
"Even your tendency to explain physics concepts at 2 AM when I'm trying to sleep."
"Even—" Gunwook stops, grinning. "Okay, we could do this all night."
"We could," Taerae agrees. "Or we could order food before I actually start experiencing pregnancy hunger and eat you instead."
"Kinky."
"Gunwook!"
Gunwook laughs, the sound bright and joyful, and finally reaches for his phone. "Okay, okay. Italian it is. Extra breadsticks? Extra dessert?"
"All of it. I'm eating for two now, apparently."
"We're both eating for two, which means technically we're eating for three, which means we should order enough food for four just to be safe."
"That's not how math works."
"I'm a physicist. I do math differently."
They bicker playfully while placing an absolutely ridiculous order—pasta and pizza and breadsticks and salad and three different desserts because Gunwook couldn't choose and Taerae was feeling indulgent. When it's done, Gunwook sets his phone aside and pulls Taerae closer, arranging them so Taerae is tucked against his chest, safe and warm in the circle of his arms.
"We should probably tell people soon," Taerae says quietly. "Your parents. My parents. Our friends."
"Tomorrow," Gunwook decides. "Tonight is just for us. Tomorrow we can start sharing the news and dealing with reactions and planning everything. But tonight, it's just you and me and our little sesame seed."
"Sesame seed," Taerae repeats, amused. "Is that what we're calling them?"
"Until we find out the sex and can start arguing about names, yes."
"We're going to argue about names, aren't we?"
"Absolutely. I have very strong opinions about names." Gunwook pauses. "Actually, no, I don't. I just wanted to sound authoritative. You can name them whatever you want."
"Even if I want to name them something weird?"
"Within reason. No naming our child after obscure neurological conditions, please."
Taerae laughs, tilting his head back to look at Gunwook. "I promise our child will have a normal, respectable name."
"Good. Although they're definitely getting a middle name that references something scientific. That's non-negotiable."
"Deal."
They fall quiet again, and Taerae lets his eyes drift closed, exhaustion from the day finally catching up with him. He's vaguely aware of Gunwook's hand moving in slow, soothing circles on his stomach, of his husband's heartbeat steady beneath his ear, of the sound of Seoul traffic outside their window mixing with their shared breathing.
"Taerae-hyung?" Gunwook's voice is soft, barely above a whisper.
"Mmm?"
"Thank you."
Taerae opens his eyes. "For what?"
"For this. For us. For our family." Gunwook's voice cracks slightly. "For being the best thing that ever happened to me. For giving me everything I didn't know I wanted."
Taerae feels his own eyes burning with tears. "You're going to make me cry before the food even gets here."
"Good. Then we'll both be crying messes together. As we should be." Gunwook presses a kiss to the top of Taerae's head. "I love you so much. Both of you. All of us. Our weird little family."
"I love you too," Taerae whispers. "So much it's stupid."
"The best kind of stupid."