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The sun was beginning its slow descent over Seoul, bleeding soft orange light between apartment buildings and washing the street in a haze of quiet exhaustion. Students were spilling out of the bus stop, shoulders slumped under backpacks, phones in hand, each of them moving toward the promise of rest.
Among them, Na Jaemin ambled home with the kind of careless energy that came from a long day of pretending to be responsible. His backpack was slung loosely over one shoulder, a plastic bag of convenience-store takeout balanced against his hip, and his laptop tucked under his arm like an afterthought.
He was muttering under his breath about the physiology professor who clearly had a personal vendetta against medical students’ free time.
“Forty pages of reading,” he mumbled, kicking a pebble down the walkway. “Because apparently we don’t need sleep, only caffeine and pain.” The bubble tea in his hand sloshed dangerously close to the rim when he juggled his keys. A straw poked him in the cheek, reminding him of the one bright spot in his day — brown sugar tapioca and twenty minutes of peace.
The apartment complex was quiet, the kind of stillness that came right before dinner hours began. His steps echoed softly in the corridor as he turned the corner toward his door, his thoughts already drifting to microwaved ramen and a shower hot enough to burn away the fatigue. But something was there — something that broke the familiar rhythm of the hallway.
A box sat neatly in front of his door. Small. Square. Unmarked.
Jaemin slowed to a stop. His first thought was that someone had received a package and the delivery guy mixed up the units again. It happened often enough. He bent slightly, peering at it, and frowned. There wasn’t a shipping label — no tape from a courier, no handwritten name, nothing at all. Just a plain cardboard box with the flaps folded shut.
“Probably a cat,” he muttered, half-amused, half-wary.
Seoul had its share of stray cats who liked to claim boxes like thrones. He shifted his takeout to one hand and crouched, tapping the top gently with his knuckle. No hiss. No movement. Nothing. Still, something about it felt … strange. The box was sitting too carefully aligned with his doorstep, not kicked aside, not left at random. He sighed, set down his food and bubble tea against the wall, then carefully placed his laptop inside his backpack.
The last thing he needed was soy sauce on his keyboard.
Jaemin lifted the box. It was light — lighter than he expected — and when he tilted it slightly, something inside rustled. A muffled sound followed, so faint he almost thought he imagined it. Then, a second one — soft, uncertain, almost like a breath.
His eyebrows drew together. He hesitated, glancing up and down the corridor. Every door was closed; the building was too quiet. The only sound was the hum of the air conditioner vent overhead and the faint traffic from the street below.
Slowly, he pried the flaps open.
Inside, wrapped in a pale yellow blanket, was a baby.
For a long moment, Jaemin couldn’t process what he was seeing. His mind scrambled to rationalize it — maybe it was a realistic doll, maybe some kind of prank — but then the baby stirred, a tiny fist unfurling, a faint whimper rising from the bundle. The sound was fragile, alive, undeniable.
Jaemin’s heart lurched painfully in his chest.
“Oh my god,” he whispered, the words slipping out without thought. He crouched lower, afraid that any sudden movement might startle the small human staring back at him. Wide brown eyes blinked up at him, framed by lashes too long for someone so small. There was a note tucked near the blanket. He reached for it carefully, unfolding the single card. The handwriting was neat, deliberate.
𝐻𝒾𝓈 𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝒾𝓈 𝒟𝑜𝓃𝑔𝒽𝓎𝓊𝒸𝓀. 𝐵𝑜𝓇𝓃 𝑜𝓃 𝒥𝓊𝓃𝑒 𝟨.
That was all. No explanation, no contact, no number. Just a name and a date that was barely three months ago. Jaemin stared at the note, then at the baby. “Donghyuck,” he repeated softly. The name felt strange on his tongue, but the baby’s gaze didn’t waver. A faint gurgle escaped, as if answering him. He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling in disbelief.
“You’re kidding me, right? Someone just left you here?” He waited for the universe to reply. It didn’t.
After a few long seconds, instinct won over confusion. He slid his hands beneath the baby, lifting him out of the box. The warmth surprised him — the tiny weight, the steady heartbeat pressed against his forearm. He’d never held a baby before, not even at family gatherings. But somehow, his body adjusted; his movements became cautious, cradling, protective.
The baby blinked up at him, then yawned. That tiny sound did something unexplainable to Jaemin’s chest. He looked down at the small face — rosy cheeks, soft hair, the faintest wrinkle between his brows — and felt something shift inside him, something he didn’t quite have a name for. He carried the baby inside without thinking, kicking the door shut behind him. His food remained forgotten in the hallway, cooling under the flickering corridor light.
The apartment was small but tidy: a single couch, a cluttered coffee table, stacks of textbooks, and an unmade bed visible from the kitchen. Jaemin set the baby down carefully on the couch, still wrapped in the blanket, before pacing back and forth. “Okay. Okay, think. What do you even do in this situation? Do I call the police? A hospital? Is there like … a hotline for found babies?”
He pulled out his phone and searched, but the baby’s soft noises kept drawing his attention. Every tiny breath made his heart thump louder. He crouched again, watching the baby’s eyelids flutter, his lips pursing like he was dreaming.
“Donghyuck,” Jaemin said again, quietly this time. “You’ve got a serious situation, you know that?”
The baby wriggled slightly, as if in response. Jaemin sighed, sitting cross-legged on the floor. His hand brushed against the edge of the blanket, and without meaning to, he started smoothing it gently. “I’m supposed to be studying for exams, not — whatever this is.”
Another sound escaped the baby’s throat — half sigh, half coo.
Jaemin’s laughter came out softer than he expected. “You’re a noisy one, huh?”
Minutes passed, or maybe hours. Time blurred. At some point, he found himself heating a bottle of milk after a quick trip to the convenience store downstairs, guided entirely by Google and panic. Later still, he found a spare towel and folded it into a makeshift pillow for the couch.
By the time the city outside dimmed into quiet, Jaemin had learned the basics of holding, rocking, and feeding without catastrophe. The baby — Donghyuck — had stopped crying altogether, resting against his arm with the tiny trust of someone who didn’t know the world could be cruel.
Jaemin leaned back against the couch, exhaustion finally catching up with him. The television flickered on mute, casting a pale glow across the room. He looked down at the sleeping face in his lap and felt something heavy and gentle settle in his chest. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do next. He didn’t know where Donghyuck had come from, or why someone had chosen his doorstep out of all places in Seoul.
But for now, he only knew one thing — that letting go didn’t feel like an option.
Somewhere outside, a car passed, headlights sweeping briefly across the floor. Jaemin blinked against the light and realized his dinner was still sitting in the hallway, cold. He almost laughed. Of course it was. He didn’t move to get it. Instead, he stayed there, watching the small rise and fall of Donghyuck’s chest, his fingers curling loosely around Jaemin’s shirt.
“Guess it’s just you and me, Sunshine,” he murmured, barely aware of the words leaving his mouth. The name lingered in the quiet air, as if it had been waiting for him to say it.
And just like that, the empty apartment didn’t feel empty anymore.
🍼 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆
By the time midnight settled over the city, Jaemin’s apartment looked nothing like the neat, quiet space it had been a few hours ago. There were grocery bags on the floor, a half-empty bottle of milk cooling by the sink, and a row of open tabs on his laptop, all variations of the same desperate query: how to take care of a newborn.
Jaemin sat cross-legged on the rug, hair sticking up from running his hands through it too many times. His phone lay face-down beside him, buzzing occasionally from messages he didn’t answer. The rest of the world had fallen away — there was only the small, wriggling person bundled in his hoodie on the couch, making soft noises that kept tugging his attention back no matter how often he looked away.
Jaemin smiled softly as he recalled his trip to the convenience store.
The cashier, a university student about his age, had stared openly as Jaemin set a pack of diapers, baby wipes, and formula powder on the counter. He hadn’t even tried to explain; he just paid quickly, muttered a “thank you,” and left with the plastic bag swinging from one arm. The air had been cold on the way back up. He remembered glancing at the lit windows of other apartments and wondering how people managed to live such ordinary lives while his had just turned itself inside out.
Now, sitting on the floor again, he was trying to remember the proportions on the formula tin.
Two scoops per hundred milliliters. Or was it one? He squinted at the label, then at the bottle, which looked nothing like the sleek glass ones in the tutorial videos. His was a repurposed plastic tumbler with the lid from an old shaker cup, the kind that once held protein drinks. He’d sterilized it with boiling water three times, just to be safe. Probably.
Donghyuck began to fuss. The sound was thin but insistent, growing sharper by the second. Jaemin nearly tripped over himself getting up. “Okay, okay, I hear you,” he muttered, half-pleading. “Don’t panic. I’ve got it. I’m a medical student. I should know things about… anatomy. Or… digestion.”
The baby didn’t look impressed.
He fumbled with the bottle, testing the milk on the back of his wrist the way the internet said to, even though he wasn’t entirely sure what temperature it was supposed to be. Then he crouched beside the couch, offering the makeshift bottle like a peace treaty. The moment Donghyuck latched on, Jaemin’s shoulders sagged with relief. The apartment filled with small, rhythmic sounds — soft sucking, a few hiccups, the faint rustle of fabric.
“There you go,” Jaemin whispered, smiling despite himself. “We’re figuring this out, huh?”
When the baby’s eyes once again fluttered shut, Jaemin didn’t move right away. He watched instead, memorizing the way Donghyuck’s tiny fingers curled near his chin, the faint hum of his breathing. The world had gone very still. Outside, the hum of distant traffic faded to a whisper. The neon sign from the 24-hour shop downstairs cast a gentle red glow through the curtains, painting the room in half-shadows.
It should have felt suffocating — the mess, the uncertainty, the sharp awareness that he had no idea what tomorrow was going to look like. But it didn’t. Somehow, beneath all the noise in his mind, there was a strange calm blooming in his chest.
He leaned back against the couch, eyes half-closed, the quiet broken only by the faint clicking of the refrigerator. “Just tonight,” he said softly, almost to himself. “You can stay for tonight.”
He didn’t mean it the way he thought he did.
The morning arrived quietly, with sunlight spilling across the floor in long golden lines. The city outside had already begun its weekday rhythm — cars, voices, the dull pulse of movement. Jaemin blinked awake to find Donghyuck still asleep beside him on the couch, his tiny hand gripping the edge of Jaemin’s T-shirt. For a moment, Jaemin didn’t move. The light caught the baby’s face just right, turning his cheeks pink, his hair soft like spun gold.
“Morning, Sunshine,” Jaemin murmured before he could stop himself. The nickname slipped out naturally, unplanned, like something that had always belonged to the air between them.
Donghyuck stirred faintly, eyelids fluttering, and Jaemin smiled. “Sunshine it is, then.”
He stood, stretching out the stiffness from sleeping half-sitting, and walked to his desk. His inbox blinked with unread emails. The top one was from Professor Han — a reminder about morning rounds. He stared at it for a long time, then quietly opened a new message.
𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚛. 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚜𝚘 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜. 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚞𝚙 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛.
- 𝙽𝚊 𝙹𝚊𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚗.
He hit send before he could change his mind.
The kettle hissed to life. He moved through the small apartment with unfamiliar ease, measuring formula, wiping the counter, opening the curtains a little wider. It was strange — how quickly the space had shifted around this new presence. The textbooks on his desk looked out of place beside the pack of diapers. His stethoscope hung next to a tiny yellow towel. And for some reason, none of it felt wrong.
After feeding the baby again, Jaemin placed him on the couch and crouched beside him. “You’re a lot of work, you know that?” he said lightly.
“But I guess I’m stuck with you until I figure out what to do next.”
The baby cooed, a sound that could almost be laughter. Jaemin’s lips twitched. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get too comfortable.”
He looked toward the window, where the morning sun had climbed a little higher, bathing the room in gold. Donghyuck’s eyes caught the light when he opened them, deep brown turning amber for a heartbeat. Jaemin’s chest ached unexpectedly. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was something else.
But when the sunlight touched both of them, warm and certain, Jaemin realized there was no next plan forming in his head. No thought of calling the police, no thought of giving the baby up. Only the quiet, instinctive certainty that the world had just rearranged itself — and this small, breathing presence at the center of it was now his to protect. He leaned his chin on his knees, watching as Donghyuck blinked up at the ceiling, fascinated by the dust motes spinning in the light.
“Okay, Sunshine,” he whispered, voice barely audible over the hum of the city beyond the glass. “Let’s see where this goes.”
And somewhere between the soft whir of the kettle and the first birds outside the window, Na Jaemin stopped being a student who’d found a baby — and quietly became the person who would never let him go.
🍼 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆
The first week passed in a blur that didn’t feel like real time. Days bled into nights, lectures into lullabies. At some point, Jaemin stopped counting the hours of sleep he lost and started measuring his days by bottles, naps, and smiles. His mornings began earlier now — usually with the soft sound of movement from the couch, the faint rustle of a blanket, or a whimper that rose to a full wail if ignored for too long.
It was strange how quickly he learned to move on instinct.
He could make a bottle half-awake, eyes still heavy with sleep, measuring out baby powder and shaking it just right without spilling a drop. The kettle hissed quietly in the background while his textbooks sat open beside him, pages weighed down by a baby wipe container.
By seven, the apartment was filled with the familiar hum of Seoul waking up — buses outside, footsteps echoing in the hall, the neighbor’s dog barking faintly. Jaemin would sit at the small kitchen table, one hand flipping through anatomy notes while the other rocked Donghyuck’s carrier beside him.
Sometimes, he talked to him while studying.
“See this, Sunshine? The heart has four chambers. Like this.” He tapped lightly on the page, tracing a neat diagram. “Atria, ventricles, blood flow, all that stuff. You’ve probably got one that’s stronger than mine right now.”
The baby’s only response was a hiccup, which Jaemin decided counted as agreement.
The apartment grew messier with every passing day — unwashed mugs, burp cloths draped over the couch, flashcards wedged between stacks of baby formula tins. But it was a lived-in kind of mess, warm and full. When he caught himself apologizing to visitors who didn’t exist, Jaemin laughed out loud and didn’t bother cleaning.
He found a rhythm, eventually. After the morning feed, he’d set up a little play area on the rug using spare pillows, then shower quickly and dress for university. It was only a ten-minute walk to campus — close enough that he could rush back between lectures if needed.
The first time he left Donghyuck at home, he lingered by the door far too long. The baby was asleep, breathing evenly, one fist curled beside his cheek. Jaemin had checked the temperature, locked the windows, and left the monitor app running on his phone three times before forcing himself to step outside.
“Just for two hours,” he muttered under his breath as he locked the door.
“You’ll be fine, Sunshine. I’ll be right back.”
The campus was loud and alive as always — coffee-fueled conversations, papers shuffling, friends teasing each other in the courtyard. Jaemin moved through it with a faint smile that no one quite understood. He looked the same — messy hair, hoodie half-zipped, notebook tucked under his arm — but there was something different about him now, a quiet warmth that softened his edges.
Between lectures, he checked his phone obsessively, glancing at the baby monitor even when the screen showed nothing but the still image of his couch. Once, during one of his lab classes, Jeno nudged him. “Why are you smiling at your phone like that?”
Jaemin blinked, caught off guard. “Just… a video,” he lied, tucking it away.
When he got home that evening, the apartment was exactly as he left it — quiet, dim, safe. The relief that hit him made him laugh out loud. “Told you I’d be back.”
He crouched beside the couch and lifted Donghyuck into his arms. The baby stirred, blinking slowly before letting out a soft, confused noise. Jaemin smiled, tapping his nose lightly. “Miss me, Sunshine?”
The response was unexpected — a tiny laugh. Not quite steady, not fully formed, but unmistakably real. The sound bubbled out of the baby like sunlight through water, bright and clear. For a second, Jaemin forgot how to breathe. He froze, then grinned so wide it hurt. “Wait — did you just laugh? You did, didn’t you? Oh my god.” He laughed too, the sound echoing softly through the apartment. “You’re unbelievable.”
He set the baby on his lap, letting the small hands grasp at his fingers. “You can’t just do that out of nowhere, you know,” he said with mock seriousness. “You’ve got to give a guy some warning.”
Donghyuck laughed again, as if he understood.
It was ridiculous — the way that sound seemed to fill the entire room, the way it felt like something inside Jaemin’s chest had unclenched for the first time in weeks. He’d thought he was doing fine before, that he’d adjusted well enough to the chaos. But hearing that laugh made him realize something deeper — that the mess, the exhaustion, the uncertainty were all just details. This, right here, was what mattered.
That night, while Donghyuck slept in his makeshift crib beside the bed, Jaemin lay awake staring at the ceiling. The city lights blinked faintly through the curtains, scattering soft gold across the walls. He thought about the baby’s laughter, about how easily it had cut through the noise of the day. His life had never been simple. It still wasn’t. But it was different now — fuller somehow, richer in a way he couldn’t put into words.
Between the lectures and the late-night feeds, the notes and the naps, something gentle had begun to root itself in him. He reached out to adjust the blanket around the baby, his hand lingering for a moment. “Goodnight, Sunshine,” he whispered, his voice barely a breath.
Outside, Seoul hummed and glittered, its restless heart beating beneath their window. Inside, the apartment was small and messy and filled with quiet warmth. Jaemin closed his eyes, smiling into the dark. Life, for all its new chaos, had never felt so right.
🍼 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆
That one supposedly fine morning began heavy. The air inside Jaemin’s apartment felt thick with unease — the kind that sank under his skin and refused to leave. Donghyuck had been warm all night, his forehead damp and flushed, his tiny breaths uneven against Jaemin’s chest. By dawn, the fever had settled deep, stubborn and hot. Jaemin sat on the edge of his bed, thermometer in one hand, worry coiled tight in his stomach. The numbers blinked back at him, a steady, merciless 38.7°C.
He exhaled shakily. “You’re burning up, Sunshine…”
The baby whimpered softly, eyes glazed, cheeks streaked pink. Jaemin pressed a cool cloth against his forehead and hummed a faint tune — something his mother used to sing when he was sick. The sound wavered, unsteady, because his own hands wouldn’t stop trembling. He’d already searched everything he could the night before: infant fever management, home remedies for babies under one, when to go to the hospital. Every answer had told him the same thing — keep the baby hydrated, watch closely, and if it worsens, seek medical help.
But Jaemin couldn’t stay.
Today was his practical anatomy exam — a full two hours that couldn’t be rescheduled. Missing it meant failing the course. Failing meant losing his scholarship. And losing that … well, it wasn’t something he could afford to imagine. He looked between his uniform folded neatly on the chair, the baby curled up in his blanket, and the clock ticking too fast on the wall.
For a long time, he just sat there, caught between logic and instinct. Then, with the same quiet resolve he’d built everything on for the past month, he picked up his phone. He scrolled through his contacts once, twice, thumb hovering over a name. Finally, he pressed Call.
“Yo, Jaem?” Jeno’s voice came through, calm as ever, a little groggy.
“Hey,” Jaemin started, voice thin. “Are you free this morning?”
“Depends. Why? You sound weird.”
Jaemin hesitated. His heart pounded hard enough that he almost hung up. “I need a favor. There’s — uh, a friend of mine who’s sick. Really sick. I have an exam, but I can’t leave him alone. Can you come by my place and just … keep an eye on him? Just for a few hours.”
There was a pause. Then, without hesitation, “Yeah, sure.”
Jaemin exhaled in relief. “Thanks, Jeno. Really. I owe you.”
He hung up before he could say anything else, before guilt could claw its way out of his chest and stop him completely.
When Jeno arrived half an hour later, the door was unlocked. The apartment was unusually quiet — the kind of quiet that made his steps sound too loud against the floor. “Hello?” he called out. “Anyone here? Jaemin asked me to look after you.” he said again, hoping for a response.
But there was no answer. Only the hum of the refrigerator and a faint rustle from the couch. He frowned, stepping further inside. Then he saw it. A baby. A baby, lying on the couch, wrapped in a yellow blanket and blinking weakly up at him. For a full five seconds, Jeno simply stood frozen in the doorway, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
“What the…” He looked around again, half expecting Jaemin to jump out with a camera. “This has to be a joke.”
But the soft whimper that followed was too real, too human, too small.
“Oh my god,” he muttered, dropping his bag and hurrying over. The baby’s cheeks were flushed, skin too warm. Instinct kicked in fast — he’d helped his cousins before, but never like this. He didn’t even know the kid’s name.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he said softly, awkwardly patting the baby’s back. “Your, uh… friend’s out right now, huh? Yeah, I don’t get it either.”
He found a small bottle on the table, still warm, a thermometer beside it. Everything looked organized — desperate but careful. Whoever had been taking care of this baby had been trying. Still, Jeno couldn’t shake the image of Jaemin’s voice over the phone: calm, deliberate, a friend who’s sick. He wasn’t expecting this. When Jaemin finally burst through the door three hours later, he was sweating, breathless, eyes darting straight to the couch.
“Is he okay?” The words tumbled out before he even set his bag down.
Jeno raised an eyebrow from where he sat on the floor, Donghyuck cradled carefully in his arms. “He? Oh, so now I get a pronoun.”
“Jeno —”
“No, no, please. Explain.” He gestured pointedly at the baby. “Because I’m trying really hard to figure out why you called him your friend.”
Jaemin pressed his lips together, guilt flickering across his face. “I didn’t know how to explain it on the phone.”
“You think?” Jeno stood up slowly, still holding the baby. “Jaemin, this is a baby. A literal infant. You left a sick baby here alone.”
“I didn’t have a choice,” Jaemin said, voice small. “I had my exam. I needed to go.”
Jeno’s eyes softened for a second but hardened again. “And how long has this been going on?”
There was a pause — too long, too telling.
“About… a month.”
Jeno blinked. “A month? You’ve been taking care of a baby for a month? While studying full-time?”
Jaemin nodded.
“And leaving him alone when you have class?”
“Only for short periods,” Jaemin defended quickly. “He’s fine. Nothing bad has ever happened.”
Jeno gave him a long, flat look. “That’s not a defense, Jaemin-ah. That’s luck.”
Silence filled the space between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Donghyuck stirred softly, a small sound escaping his lips, and both their heads turned instantly. The fever hadn’t worsened, thankfully — his breathing was steadier now. Jeno sighed, shifting the baby gently in his arms. “You’re lucky I came when I did. He needs constant attention. He could’ve… you know.” He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
Jaemin’s voice cracked when he finally spoke. “I know.”
For a moment, Jeno just looked at him — the exhaustion under his eyes, the quiet panic still clinging to his expression. Then he exhaled, setting Donghyuck back into the crib. “You should’ve called me sooner,” he said softly. “You’re drowning, man.”
Jaemin looked down at his hands. “I thought I could handle it.”
“Maybe you can,” Jeno replied. “But you shouldn’t have to do it alone.”
It was quiet after that. Only the faint hum of the city outside, the slow rhythm of the baby’s breathing. Jeno reached over and ruffled Jaemin’s hair lightly. “Next time you’ve got an exam, you call me. No excuses. Got it?”
Jaemin nodded, voice barely above a whisper. “Got it.”
He glanced over at Donghyuck, now sleeping soundly again, and something in his chest loosened — relief, guilt, gratitude all tangled together. For the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel completely alone.
🍼 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆
The apartment no longer felt like a secret he was barely holding together. After that morning — the one that ended with Jeno’s quiet scolding and an exhausted promise — Jaemin found himself waking to a softer kind of routine. There were still the long hours of study, the bleary late nights bent over anatomy diagrams, but now, there was someone else in the picture.
Jeno.
He came by after classes, often uninvited but never unwelcome, kicking off his shoes at the door like he belonged there. Sometimes he brought groceries; sometimes he just brought coffee. And somehow, within days, he’d learned the Sunshine Routine — Jaemin’s cobbled-together system of bottles, nap schedules, and diaper timing that kept their tiny world functioning.
Jaemin hadn’t expected him to take to it so naturally. Jeno was the kind of person who folded dish towels in perfect thirds and remembered where every ingredient in the fridge came from. Within a week, he was making formula without being asked, timing naps with clinical precision, and rocking Donghyuck to sleep in the same rhythm Jaemin used. “You’re a natural,” Jaemin said once, leaning against the counter while Jeno burped Donghyuck over his shoulder.
Jeno shot him a look over the baby’s head. “Natural, huh? Says the guy who thought rice water could substitute formula.”
Jaemin winced. “That was one time. And it worked!”
“It did not work,” Jeno said, but there was a smile in his voice.
The days slipped into each other like that — comfortable, strangely domestic. Between them, the baby thrived: his cheeks grew rounder, his cries sharper, his smiles brighter. He started reaching for things — Jaemin’s sleeve, Jeno’s hair, the sunlight filtering through the blinds. Jaemin started calling him Haechan around that time, quietly, like the word had always been there. The baby seemed to recognize it — eyes lighting up when Jaemin said it, lips curving as if he understood.
“See that?” Jaemin said one morning, beaming as he crouched beside the crib. “He likes it. He’s definitely a Haechan.”
Jeno sighed, sipping his coffee. “You realize you’re giving him a nickname like he’s your roommate.”
“He is technically my roommate.”
The two of them laughed, and Haechan squealed in response, delighted by the sound.
By mid-semester, Jaemin’s life had become a delicate balancing act — lectures in the morning, naps and bottles in the afternoon, study sessions once Haechan was asleep. Jeno dropped by often enough that it no longer felt strange. The apartment wasn’t as quiet anymore. It had become a rhythm shared between three heartbeats instead of one. And then, one Thursday afternoon, everything almost came apart. It started innocently. Their group chat — the one that had fallen silent ever since Jaemin stopped showing up to hangouts — lit up again.
[Legendary Doctors 💚]
Renjun: Group study session tomorrow? midterms are killing me
Chenle: Count me in if there’s food
Mark: There’s always food
Jisung: Nana hyung coming or nah
Jaemin: I’ll try 😅
Jeno: No you aren’t. You got the baby.
There was a pause. A long one. The kind of pause that hummed through the phone like static.
Renjun: …the what?
Chenle: THE WHAT.
Mark: Jeno what baby are we talking about
Jisung: ??
Renjun: I swear if you mean actual baby. Stay put. I’m going to your apartment right now.
“Jeno,” Jaemin said, horrified, looking up from where Haechan was babbling on his lap. “What did you just do?” Jeno froze, phone still in his hand. “Have you forgotten that I am right in front of you…” Jaemin groaned, burying his face in his hands. Five minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Renjun arrived first, lab coat half-buttoned, stethoscope still hanging from his neck. He looked like he’d sprinted straight from university.
“Where’s the baby?” he demanded the moment Jaemin opened the door.
Jaemin blinked. “Uh. Inside?”
Renjun brushed past him, scanning the room like a detective at a crime scene until his eyes landed on the crib. The tiny lump of Haechan was sleeping soundly, one hand curled beside his cheek. “Oh my god,” Renjun whispered. Then louder: “Oh my god, Jaemin.”
Jaemin held up his hands in defense. “Okay, before you say anything—”
“Before I say anything? You’ve been raising a baby in your apartment while attending medical school!”
“Technically pre-med,” Jaemin corrected, smiling sheepishly.
Renjun shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. “That’s not the point.”
Jeno, wisely, had retreated to the kitchen. Renjun turned back toward Jaemin, his voice softer now but still edged with disbelief. “You’ve been leaving him alone when you go to class, haven’t you?” Jaemin hesitated — long enough to answer without words. Renjun exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Nana-ya, that’s dangerous. Anything could happen — fever, choking, sudden illness —”
“I know,” Jaemin said quietly. “I know that now.”
Renjun’s expression softened slightly. “You should’ve told us.”
“I didn’t think you’d believe me,” Jaemin admitted.
Renjun let out a helpless laugh. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have. But still.”
By evening, the rest of their group had arrived — Mark with wide, careful eyes, Chenle armed with snacks, Jisung hovering behind them like he’d accidentally walked into the wrong house. The living room, once quiet and orderly, was suddenly full of noise and warmth. Chenle immediately sat cross-legged by the crib, whispering nonsense to Haechan until the baby stirred awake.
“Hi there, little dude,” Chenle said in a singsong voice. “You’re much cuter than Jaemin described.”
“I never described him,” Jaemin muttered, watching as Haechan blinked at the new faces, then giggled when Jisung waved.
Mark crouched beside him, gentle and careful. “He’s really something, huh?”
“Yeah,” Jaemin said softly. “He is.”
For a long moment, none of them spoke. The sun dipped through the blinds, bathing the room in gold. Haechan reached out, chubby fingers brushing at the air, and everyone leaned closer as if drawn by gravity itself. Even Renjun, arms crossed and trying very hard to look disapproving, found himself smiling. “He’s got good lungs,” he muttered. “And he looks healthy. You’ve been doing something right, at least.”
Jaemin’s mouth curved, small but proud. “We’ve been figuring it out.”
Mark straightened, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Let us figure it out with you.”
It was as simple as that.
By the time night fell, Jisung was playing peekaboo like a seasoned professional, Chenle had declared himself official babysitter number one, and Mark was writing down emergency pediatric numbers on sticky notes. Renjun checked on Haechan one last time before leaving. When the door finally closed behind them, Jaemin stood in the quiet again, the echo of laughter still clinging to the air.
Haechan had fallen asleep in his arms, a tiny smile ghosting across his face. Jaemin pressed his lips to the baby’s forehead, whispering softly, “You’ve got everyone wrapped around your little fingers, don’t you, Sunshine?”
The city outside hummed faintly — the sound of traffic, of life moving on — but inside, the world had narrowed again. Just Jaemin and the sleeping warmth in his arms.
🍼 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆
The night after everyone left, the apartment felt heavier — not in the suffocating way it used to, but full, lived-in, the air still echoing faintly with laughter and footsteps. There were crumbs on the coffee table, a blanket draped carelessly over the couch, and two mugs sitting side by side in the sink. Jaemin hadn’t realized how quiet his home had become over the past month until the noise came back — and now that it had, the silence that followed felt oddly tender.
Haechan slept soundly in the crib, his little chest rising and falling in a soft, steady rhythm. A faint hum of the humidifier filled the background as Jaemin stood near the window, looking out at Seoul’s glowing skyline. The city felt different tonight — no longer something distant and unreachable. Somewhere out there were his friends, probably still talking about what they’d just seen. Probably still teasing him for keeping a baby secret.
He smiled faintly at the thought, rubbing at the back of his neck.
The exhaustion had settled into his bones, but beneath it was something else — something gentler. Gratitude, maybe. Or the fragile comfort of not having to pretend anymore. Earlier that evening, after the initial chaos had faded into laughter, the apartment had turned into a kind of impromptu family gathering. Jisung had sat on the floor, holding out his fingers for Haechan to grab. “He’s strong,” he’d said, eyes wide with awe. “Look at that grip.”
“That’s because you’re weak,” Chenle quipped, earning a glare.
Renjun had taken mental notes — feedings, sleep patterns, bath times. “You need to baby-proof this place,” he’d muttered, inspecting the coffee table corners. “He’s going to start crawling soon.”
Jaemin had watched all of it unfold from the edge of the couch — his friends, his family in all but blood, doting over the child who had turned his life upside down. There was no judgment anymore, no disbelief. Just warmth. At one point, Mark had caught his gaze from across the room, a quiet smile tugging at his mouth.
“You’re doing great, man,” he’d said. “You really are.”
Jaemin had looked down at Haechan then, nestled against his chest, and smiled softly.
Now, as the night stretched deeper, he crouched beside the crib and brushed a stray curl from Haechan’s forehead. The baby stirred, made a soft sound, then settled again. “You made a mess of my life, you know that?” Jaemin murmured, his voice low, affectionate. “But somehow… it’s a good mess.”
The baby’s hand twitched, fingers curling loosely around nothing, and Jaemin’s chest ached in the best way.
He straightened, stretching his sore shoulders, and looked around the apartment again. It was strange — the clutter of the day didn’t bother him like it used to. The tiny socks hanging off the edge of the laundry basket, the bottles drying on the rack, the colorful rattle Jeno had bought on impulse. All of it had become proof of something larger — proof that he was no longer living alone.
The weeks that followed moved with quiet steadiness.
Renjun began stopping by every few evenings, always under the pretense of “checking the baby’s vitals.” He’d come armed with a small medical bag, forehead thermometer in hand, and lecture Jaemin about hydration before stealing one of his snacks. Mark showed up on weekends, claiming to help study but mostly ending up on the floor with Haechan, holding flashcards in one hand and making airplane noises with the other.
“He’s got good focus,” Mark said once, laughing as Haechan grabbed at the corner of a card. “You think he’s gonna be a genius?”
“Obviously,” Jaemin had replied, dead serious. “He’s my son.”
Jisung, who used to flinch at loud noises, had somehow become the peekaboo champion of Seoul. Haechan adored him — every time Jisung ducked behind the blanket, the baby’s laughter echoed like sunlight through the room. Chenle, meanwhile, declared himself “babysitter extraordinaire” and began a self-appointed campaign of teaching Haechan to respond to “Sunshine.” It worked frighteningly well.
And Jeno — Jeno remained the constant. Always the one quietly holding things together when Jaemin’s days got tangled. He’d show up with groceries, wash bottles without being asked, or take over feeding duty when Jaemin fell asleep sitting upright on the couch. It became normal. Not easy, not effortless — but normal.
One Sunday afternoon, as the city hummed softly outside, Jaemin sat on the floor surrounded by flashcards and formula tins. Haechan babbled nearby, waving his arms as though conducting an invisible orchestra.
“You’ve got quite the audience, huh?” Jeno said from the kitchen.
“He’s my biggest fan,” Jaemin replied, grinning.
Jeno leaned against the counter, watching him with that familiar, fond disbelief. “You know, when you called me that morning, I thought you’d finally lost it. But now…” He shrugged. “I'd have to admit. You’re kind of good at this.”
Jaemin laughed quietly. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
For a moment, the world felt still — the kind of stillness that came not from silence, but from peace. The apartment smelled faintly of milk and laundry detergent, sunlight spilling across the floor in golden strips. Jaemin looked at Haechan again, his tiny face scrunched in determination as he tried to sit upright. He reached out, placing a steadying hand on the baby’s back.
“You’ve changed everything,” he murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “But I wouldn’t trade any of it.”
Haechan turned, looked up at him with wide, bright eyes — and smiled. That was all it took. Every tired morning, every sleepless night, every missed hangout — it all felt worth it in that single, fleeting moment.
Later that night, as he tucked Haechan into his crib, Jaemin whispered softly, “You’ve got so many people who love you, Sunshine. I hope you know that.”
Outside, the city buzzed quietly, alive and constant. But inside, Jaemin’s small world had never felt more complete. He glanced once more at the crib, then turned off the light — the faint glow of the city washing across the walls. The apartment, once a space of loneliness, now breathed with warmth. The kind that didn’t just pass through. The kind that stayed.
🍼 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆
Seoul’s summer arrived in quiet, golden waves — the kind that filtered through Jaemin’s apartment blinds and landed on the floor in neat, trembling stripes. The air smelled faintly of milk and baby lotion, the soundtrack a soft hum of cartoons and Haechan’s babbling echoing through the small living room. Somewhere beneath the piles of tiny socks and pastel bibs, Jaemin’s anatomy notes lay forgotten, half-buried under a stuffed bear with one ear perpetually chewed on.
Life, he realized, had found a new kind of order — not in precision, but in rhythm.
Every morning began with Haechan’s shriek of joy at sunrise. The baby had learned that sunlight meant Jaemin was awake, and no amount of pretending-to-be-asleep could save Jaemin from a gleeful crawl across the bed, a grab at his hair, and the triumphant giggle that followed. Somewhere along the way, between the early feedings and late-night lullabies, Haechan had become the center of Jaemin’s universe — orbiting it with a brightness that made everything else blur at the edges.
The milestones started quietly.
At first, it was the crawling — or something close enough to it. Haechan would rock on his palms, frown with deep concentration, and then launch himself forward like a tiny determined seal, face-planting into Jaemin’s folded laundry. Jeno, who was visiting that day, had doubled over laughing. “He’s aerodynamic,” he’d said, to which Jaemin threw a pacifier at his head. But the pride — the pure, swelling pride — when Haechan managed to crawl a full meter without falling made Jaemin’s chest ache.
The videos began piling up after that.
Every new sound, every new trick, every gummy smile was caught through the lens of Jaemin’s phone. His camera roll was a gallery of growing — the tiny fists, the wobbly balance, the way Haechan’s hair stuck up like soft feathers after naps. There were albums for everything: Haechan’s First Smile, Haechan’s First Bath Disaster, Sunshine Laughs #3. His friends had stopped teasing him about it after realizing how happy he looked in those videos — how the laughter behind the camera was always full and unguarded.
Then came the day Haechan spoke.
It happened on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, when Jaemin was half-distractedly stacking formula cans into the kitchen cabinet. Haechan sat on the floor, gnawing on the edge of his toy giraffe, eyes following Jaemin with lazy interest. Then, out of nowhere — a small, uncertain sound:
“Na…na?”
The world froze.
Jaemin turned, wide-eyed. “Sunshine, what did you just say?”
The baby blinked up at him, drooling slightly, before repeating with more conviction. “Nana!”
And Jaemin’s heart nearly stopped.
He scooped Haechan up so fast the toy giraffe went flying. “You— you said Nana! You— oh my god, Sunshine!” His laughter came out broken, breathless, his cheek pressed against Haechan’s soft curls. The baby giggled, delighted by the chaos he’d caused, babbling “Nana! Nana!” again like it was a game.
By the time Jeno and Mark arrived later that evening, Jaemin had already texted the group chat a blurry video and a dozen exclamation points. Chenle brought cupcakes “to celebrate the baby genius,” Jisung filmed everything on his phone, and Renjun, as always, gave the calmest response — “Technically, it’s not a word yet, but it’s close enough.” Still, even he smiled when Haechan reached for him, saying “Nana” again with that gummy grin.
They’d all gathered in the living room, laughter spilling out the open window. Jeno was on the floor making faces at Haechan, who was attempting to crawl into Mark’s lap. Chenle was filming a “baby vlog,” narrating dramatically. Jaemin leaned against the kitchen counter, a half-drained bottle in one hand, just watching.
The laughter felt like sunlight.
His life had shrunk once — to classes, textbooks, deadlines — but somehow, with a baby and five friends squeezed into his tiny apartment, it had expanded again in ways he couldn’t have imagined. Every messy bottle, every sleepless night, every soft “Nana” felt like a new kind of purpose.
Later that night, after everyone had left and the apartment had gone quiet again, Jaemin sat on the floor beside Haechan’s crib. His phone was in his hand, the latest video replaying — Haechan’s proud “Nana,” his own laugh in the background. He smiled softly, brushing a thumb over the baby’s hand.
“Goodnight, Sunshine,” he whispered.
The baby stirred, murmured something that sounded suspiciously like “Appa,” and Jaemin’s chest filled with light. He stayed there until sleep claimed them both — the boy who had learned to love, and the child who had taught him how to.
🍼 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆
June 6 arrived wrapped in warmth.
The Seoul sky stretched wide and cloudless, light pouring over Jaemin’s apartment like a blessing. He had been up since dawn — frosting cupcakes with shaky determination, stringing yellow paper garlands across the living room, and trying to keep Haechan’s curious little hands away from the decorations. The baby, in his tiny birthday crown that kept slipping sideways, babbled happily from his seat on the floor, oblivious to the chaos of balloons, ribbons, and the small mountain of gifts that had taken over Jaemin’s dining table.
It was strange, Jaemin thought, how time moved when love was involved.
A few months ago, he had tripped over a box on his doorstep. A few months ago, there had been panic and a crying baby he didn’t know what to do with. Now, there was laughter, frosting on the walls, and a heartbeat that matched his own. By the time the doorbell rang, the apartment already smelled of vanilla and baby lotion — the scent of one small, happy world.
“Happy birthday, Sunshine!” Chenle shouted the moment he entered, a sparkly gift bag in each hand. Jisung followed, balancing a cake box that read ‘Na Donghyuck’s 1st Birthday — Uri Sunshine’ in pastel lettering. Mark trailed behind with balloons tangled around his wrist, Renjun carrying a large box wrapped in blue paper, and Jeno grinning like he was the proud uncle.
Haechan squealed at the sight of them, arms outstretched.
“He remembers us!” Jeno declared as a joke, scooping him up with a cheer. “My favorite little nephew!”
“Jeno hyung, you said that about Chenle’s dog last week,” Jisung deadpanned, earning laughter from the group.
They filled the apartment with noise — the easy kind, full of teasing and warmth. Mark was the first to smear frosting on Jaemin’s cheek; Renjun took over bottle duty like he’d been waiting for it; Chenle insisted on documenting every second for “future blackmail material.” The living room felt smaller than ever, but somehow, more alive too — laughter echoing off the walls, gifts piling higher by the minute.
Haechan, in his little birthday shirt that read ‘One-derful’, sat in the middle of it all like a tiny emperor, face bright and sticky with icing. After the cake had been demolished and everyone had eaten far too much, Renjun clapped his hands together. “Alright, Jaemin-ah, it’s time for the doljabi!”
“The what?” Mark blinked.
“The traditional first birthday ceremony,” Renjun explained patiently, already pulling out the tray he’d brought. “We place different items in front of the baby, and whatever he picks first predicts his future. It’s a fun little thing.”
“Ooooh, I like this,” Chenle grinned, already digging through the bag of random objects he’d packed. “Let’s make it interesting.”
Soon, they had an array of items spread out on a soft blanket before Haechan. Renjun first set down a stethoscope, smiling softly as he muttered how the baby will be a doctor like everyone else. Mark gave Renjun a deadpanned expression as he placed a book down. “Do you want him to drown in student loans? I think he would rather be a scholar, look at him! He already has the face of a tiny genius!”
That statement itself made everyone roll their eyes. Jisung quietly puts down a toy car, offering the possibility of Haechan growing up to be an engineer. This was followed by a paintbrush placed by Chenle, Jeno put down a microphone and finally, Jaemin carefully set down a soft teddy bear with a small smile. “I just want him to be safe and happy.”
The group gathered in a loose circle, phones out, laughter quieting into eager anticipation.
Haechan blinked at the choices before him, chubby hands hovering in indecision. He babbled something incoherent, then reached — for the teddy bear. Everyone held their breath. He touched it once, then paused. His head tilted, eyes catching the glint of something shinier.
The microphone.
With a delighted squeal, he grabbed it with both hands, holding it to his mouth and letting out a loud stream of baby babble that sounded suspiciously like a song. “Oh my god!” Chenle gasped, voice climbing. “Future idol confirmed!”
Jeno whooped. “Look at him! Natural-born performer!”
Mark clapped his hands, laughing. “We’re witnessing history, people!”
Renjun was already filming. “Na Donghyuck — stage name Haechan.”
Jaemin could only groan, half-laughing as he buried his face in his hands. “No, no, no. Not my son. I’m not letting him debut at eighteen and live off energy drinks and two hours of sleep while being overworked to death by an agency.”
“Too late,” Jeno teased. “He’s already got the charisma.”
Haechan beamed at the attention, drool glistening on his chin, babbling proudly into the toy microphone while everyone cooed and clapped. It was pure, infectious joy — the kind that made the room glow. The laughter carried long into the evening. Photos were taken, songs were sung, and by the time the last guest left, Jaemin’s apartment was a battlefield of wrapping paper and half-eaten cupcakes.
Haechan, still clutching the microphone, had long since fallen asleep on Jaemin’s chest. His tiny hand rested over Jaemin’s heartbeat, his face relaxed in that familiar, trustful way that always made Jaemin’s throat tighten. He walked slowly to the window, the city lights shimmering outside like a quiet lullaby. The night smelled faintly of sugar and warmth.
He pressed a soft kiss to Haechan’s forehead.
“No matter what happens,” he murmured, voice barely above a breath, “you’ll always have me.”
The baby shifted, sighing contentedly, the microphone still tucked in his small hand. Jaemin smiled — the kind that came from somewhere deep, somewhere infinite — and held him closer, the two of them framed in the soft light of Seoul’s sleeping skyline.
Outside, the world turned quietly on. Inside, Jaemin’s whole world slept against his heart.
🍼 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆
Time, Jaemin learned, didn’t pass — it unfolded. Slowly at first, like the soft stretching of dawn. Then all at once, like a curtain pulled back to reveal a brighter sky.
Haechan grew.
It happened in flashes — quiet, fleeting moments that Jaemin only realized were precious after they’d already become memories. The apartment, once too small, now felt alive in new ways: toys in every corner, tiny socks hiding in the laundry, and a giggle that could pierce through even the most exhausting of study sessions.
At two, Haechan learned to run. Not walk — run. His legs seemed to have inherited pure chaos, powered by the singular goal of escaping every baby gate Jaemin had ever installed. He darted down the hallway with that determined little waddle, laughing so hard he would eventually topple over, giggling from the floor while Jaemin half-scolded, half-laughed. There were bruises, of course — little ones on knees and elbows — but Jaemin had learned the ritual well: disinfectant, a kiss on the forehead, and the same phrase every time — “You’re brave, Sunshine.”
At three, the words began to flow. Haechan’s world was made of names, colors, songs — each one louder and more confident than the last. He’d hum nonsense tunes while Jaemin cooked breakfast, insisting that pancakes only taste right when you sing to them. He’d run to the door whenever Jeno visited, yelling “Uncle Neno!” at the top of his lungs before tackling him with hugs. Renjun became “Doc-Jun,” Mark was “Uncle Moo,” Chenle was “Loudle,” and poor Jisung was simply “Shy-Sung.”
Jaemin’s phone never left his side anymore. The photo albums kept growing: Sunshine Turns Two, Baby Chef in Action, Park Day with the Uncles. Every laugh, every mispronounced word, every sleepy afternoon was caught through his lens — as if capturing time might help slow it down.
Then, before he knew it, years had passed.
The living room was no longer a nursery but a playground — drawings taped to the fridge, building blocks scattered across the floor, and a growing child who looked like he was the child of the sun itself. His hair curled softly at the ends now, his smile bright and certain, skin a soft tan that enhances his features even more. He’d taken to sitting beside Jaemin during his late-night study sessions, doodling on Jaemin’s old notebooks while whispering, “Appa, you study. I draw.”
Graduation came in early spring.
The morning sunlight poured through the window, painting Jaemin’s freshly pressed gown in soft gold. He stood in front of the mirror, cap slightly askew, still in disbelief that this was real — that he’d made it here, through sleepless nights and early mornings, through lectures and lullabies. Haechan watched from the couch, munching on cereal with solemn fascination. Then, as if realizing the significance of the day, he clambered down, dragging his tiny backpack behind him. “Appa,” he said proudly, “I’m going to school too.”
Jaemin laughed, crouching down to fix Haechan’s collar. “Not today, Sunshine. Today is Appa’s school.”
“But I wanna see,” Haechan pouted.
And so, he did.
Hours later, in the wide auditorium filled with families and flashing cameras, Jaemin walked across the stage to receive his scroll. His heart pounded, his vision blurry — and then he heard it. A small, high-pitched voice cutting through the crowd like sunlight through clouds.
“That’s my Appa!”
The entire hall turned toward the sound. Haechan stood on his chair, face split into a wide grin, waving both hands above his head. “That’s my Appa!” he shouted again, bouncing as Mark tried — and failed — to pull him down. Laughter rippled through the audience. Jaemin, standing under the bright stage lights, felt the sting of tears behind his smile. He bowed once more, clutching the scroll tightly to his chest, and whispered under his breath — “You’re my reason, Sunshine.”
The rest of the day blurred in a whirl of photos, hugs, and laughter. Jeno carried Haechan on his shoulders for half the ceremony, while Chenle insisted on taking family portraits with his polaroid. Renjun — ever the practical one — made sure everyone drank enough water. Mark kept feeding Haechan bits of celebratory cake until Jisung warned him he’d get sick.
When they finally returned home, Jaemin sat on the couch with Haechan asleep in his lap, tiny fingers still clutching the edge of his graduation gown. The diploma lay open on the coffee table — a piece of paper that once represented years of ambition, now eclipsed by the small boy snoring softly against his chest.
Later that summer came Haechan’s first actual fall that did not cause just a bruise — a scraped knee from running too fast down the playground slide. There were tears, the hiccupping kind that broke Jaemin’s heart in half, but he knew what to do. He cleaned the wound gently, humming to calm him. When it was done, he kissed the bandage and said the words that had become a promise over the years. “You’re brave, Sunshine. So, so brave.”
Haechan sniffled, eyes glossy. “Appa… it hurts.”
“I know.” Jaemin smiled softly. “But it means you’re growing.”
The boy leaned into his arms, murmuring, “Then I don’t wanna grow anymore.”
Jaemin’s laugh was quiet, bittersweet. “You already are.”
Days turned into months again — school enrollment papers, new shoes, alphabet songs sung too loudly in the mornings. Jaemin learned to pack lunches between work shifts, to style hair from YouTube tutorials for preschool plays, to catch every word of every bedtime story no matter how tired he was. And somewhere in between — between the scraped knees, the laughter, the bedtime songs — he realized he hadn’t just raised a child. He’d built a world.
A small, bright world made of sunlight, love, and the sound of a little boy laughing his name.
Every time Haechan called out “Appa!” — in joy, in need, in triumph — Jaemin felt it like a heartbeat, a reminder of that first night years ago, when the box on his doorstep had changed everything. Time didn’t pass, he thought again, watching Haechan fall asleep one quiet evening.
It grew — just like they did. Together.
The new house sat quietly at the edge of Seoul — white walls, a small garden, and wide windows that opened toward the morning sun. It wasn’t grand or polished, but it felt alive, like something that had been built out of laughter and dreams rather than bricks.
Jaemin stood on the small front path, one hand resting lightly on Haechan’s shoulder. The boy’s fingers clutched a soft, worn stuffed bear — the same one Jaemin had once placed beside a microphone on a birthday mat years ago. The air smelled faintly of lilacs and new beginnings.
“What do you think, Sunshine?” Jaemin asked, voice quiet, smile trembling at the edges.
Haechan tilted his head up, eyes wide and bright, and said with the same certainty he had always carried since learning how to talk, “It’s home.”
That was all Jaemin needed to hear.
He knelt, hugging the boy close, his gown sleeves brushing against Haechan’s hair. Behind them, Jeno was still struggling with a moving box twice his size, Chenle’s laughter echoing through the driveway. Mark was trying to set up the grill in the garden, Renjun was already arguing about the proper way to lift furniture, and Jisung — poor Jisung — was buried under a pile of cushions.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was theirs.
That afternoon, they sat together on the porch, eating convenience-store sandwiches because the kitchen wasn’t unpacked yet. Haechan fell asleep against Jaemin’s arm before the sun set, sticky-fingered and content. And for the first time in years, Jaemin let himself exhale fully — the kind of sigh that carried both relief and gratitude. He’d done it. They’d done it.
🍼 ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆
Years passed in a blur of mornings and memories. The house now filled with echoes of footsteps, laughter, and a dozen versions of Haechan — giggling toddler, curious student, sharp-tongued preteen. The walls bore witness to piano practice that never stayed in tune, late-night movie marathons, and the smell of pancakes that always came out just a little burnt.
By the time Jaemin was thirty-one, the stethoscope around his neck had become part of him — as familiar as his son’s laughter echoing through the hall. The hospital called him Dr. Na, but at home, he was still just Appa.
And his Sunshine had grown.
Haechan was twelve now — bright-eyed, quick-witted, and somehow always up before him. The boy stood at the stove that morning, standing on a small step ladder, sleeves rolled up, humming under his breath while flipping eggs that were almost too perfect. Sunlight spilled through the window, dust motes dancing around him like flecks of gold.
“Appa,” Haechan called without turning around, “don’t forget to eat before you leave for work.”
Jaemin paused in the doorway, tie half-knotted, struck silent for a moment by how much life could change and still feel so familiar. The boy’s voice carried the same warmth as always, but there was a steadiness now — one that made Jaemin’s chest ache with pride. “When did you become so mature, huh?” he said, stepping closer, ruffling Haechan’s hair. “What would I do without you, Sunshine?”
Haechan only smiled, the faintest blush on his cheeks. “Probably forget to eat.”
Jaemin laughed, pulling him into a brief hug, smelling the faint trace of soap and breakfast. There were moments, like this one, when he still saw the baby he’d once cradled — the tiny hands reaching for him through sleepless nights — and others when he saw the man Haechan would someday become. Before leaving, Jaemin leaned down, pressing a kiss to his son’s forehead. “I’ll be home early tonight, promise.”
“Don’t work too hard,” Haechan said, echoing the words Jaemin had once told him countless times.
The day passed quietly. Patients, rounds, paperwork — the rhythm of a doctor’s life. But something small tugged at the back of Jaemin’s mind all afternoon — an odd kind of anticipation he couldn’t quite place. When he finally arrived home, the house was dark. Their home seemed too quiet, and a sense of unease slid down Jaemin’s throat.
“Sunshine?” he called, setting down his bag. “Did the power—”
Lights exploded overhead.
“Surprise!”
The shout was deafening, joyous, full of chaos. Balloons bobbed from the ceiling, confetti rained from above, and standing in the middle of it all was Haechan — grinning, frosting on his cheek, a birthday banner crooked behind him that read “Happy Birthday Appa!”
Behind him, the familiar faces emerged one by one: Jeno with a cake so tall it nearly collapsed under the candles; Mark carrying snacks; Renjun, Chenle, and Jisung all waving wildly, yelling over one another in celebration. Jaemin stood frozen for a heartbeat, trying to take it in — the scent of frosting, the laughter, the warmth that seemed to fill every inch of the house.
“You— you did all this?” he managed, voice trembling.
Haechan nodded proudly, eyes sparkling. “Everyone helped. But it was my idea.”
And just like that, something in Jaemin cracked. He covered his mouth with his hand, laughter spilling through tears he couldn’t stop. “You planned a whole party, Sunshine?”
“Of course,” Haechan said, tone matter-of-fact. “Appa takes care of everyone. It’s your turn to be taken care of.”
The words landed with the kind of weight that only love could carry. Jaemin crossed the room, scooping Haechan into a tight hug. The boy squeaked in surprise, then wrapped his arms around Jaemin’s neck, small and warm and solid in his embrace. Around them, his friends laughed and cheered, Mark shouting for them to cut the cake before Jeno “accidentally” dropped it.
They sang loudly. The candles flickered against Jaemin’s teary smile. And when he looked at his son — at the boy who had once been a mystery on his doorstep — he felt something indescribably full bloom in his chest. Later that night, when everyone had gone home and the kitchen was a mess of plates and laughter, Jaemin wandered down the hallway. He stopped at the slightly open door of Haechan’s room — and paused.
A melody drifted through the crack. Soft, pure, unguarded.
Haechan was sitting by the window, earphones tangled around his neck, singing quietly to himself. It wasn’t perfect — his voice cracked on the high notes, and he mumbled through some lyrics — but there was something honest about it, something luminous. Jaemin stood there for a long while, listening.
The memory of that first birthday flashed through his mind — the microphone, the laughter, the teasing about “future superstar.” He smiled to himself, the ache of love pressing gently against his ribs.
“Future superstar,” he whispered, barely audible. “Guess they were right.”
He stepped back, leaving the boy to his music, and returned to his own room. The moonlight spilled across his desk, catching the edges of an old photo — a young Jaemin holding a baby wrapped in a blanket, eyes full of terror and wonder. He smiled. Life had changed a thousand times since that night. But one thing had never shifted — the promise he’d made. As the city outside hummed with quiet life, Jaemin closed his eyes and whispered to the memory of that first dawn together:
“No matter what happens, you’ll always have me.”
From the other room, faint and sure, a voice sang softly into the night — his Sunshine, growing, glowing, and still his whole world.