Chapter Text
The silence in the spare room was thick and undisturbed. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of afternoon light cutting through the window. You ran a hand over your swollen belly, a soft, reassuring hum building in your chest. A gentle flutter answered you from within, a secret hello from the tiny life you were nurturing. “Your dad’s on a stage somewhere right now,” you whispered, your voice barely disturbing the quiet. “Probably making thousands of people scream. But he’s the loudest one of all, you know?”
You closed your eyes, picturing him—sweat beading on his brow, focused and intense, a leader to the world but your softhearted Chris at his core. The distance was a familiar ache, a dull throb you’d learned to live with, but this was different. This wasn’t just your loneliness; it was a space that needed to be filled. An empty room that needed to become a welcome.
“I want you to know him,” you murmured to the bump. “I want you to know his voice, his laugh, the way he worries… even before you can really hear it. So we’re going to build a little piece of him right here.”
A week later, the silence was shattered by laughter and the sharp, clean scent of fresh paint. Chris’s mom, Jessica, and his sister had descended with an arsenal of drop cloths, brushes, and a contagious energy that filled the house. They moved with a practiced grace, a family unit that welcomed you so completely it made your heart ache.
You were focused, perched on a small stool, a fine-tipped brush in your hand. One by one, you brought the Skzoos to life on the walls. There was a tiny, quivering Wolf Chan peeking from behind a painted tree, a determined Leebit nibbling on a carrot, a sleepy Dwaekki curled up in a corner. Each character was a labor of love, your brushstrokes careful and deliberate.
Jessica paused beside you, her gaze soft as she watched you paint the delicate whiskers on a Quokka. “He always loved drawing,” she said, her voice warm with nostalgia. “Even as a little boy, he’d fill notebooks with characters. Had this one… a little wolf, I think. Always the hero, always protecting everyone.” She smiled, a distant look in her eyes. “He was so sensitive. Felt everything so deeply. Still does.”
Hannah, wrestling with a tangled string of fairy lights, chimed in. “Remember when he cried because that bird’s nest fell out of the tree? He tried to put all the little twigs back together himself for hours.”
You listened, your hand stilling on the wall. You saw Chris in their stories—not the performer, not the leader, but the boy with the huge, bleeding heart. The man who stayed up late worrying about his members, who called you just to hear your voice before a big show. You looked at the Wolf Chan on the wall, the protector, and a wave of certainty washed over you. Your baby would have that same softness. That same fierce, unwavering love.
With the walls painted and the furniture assembled—a sturdy crib, a comfortable rocking chair, a dresser anchored to the wall—the room began to feel real. The final touches arrived in carefully packed boxes. You unrolled soft, cloud-like blankets with tiny stars embroidered on them, hung a mobile of felt moons and planets above the crib, and arranged a small collection of plushies on the top shelf.
Your fingers lingered on the Wolf Chan plush. It was perfect, with its soft gray fur and determined little face. You’d ordered it specially, imagining your child clutching it, a tiny anchor to their father. You carried it over to the crib, your heart swelling. You leaned down, ready to place it right in the center, a sentinel waiting for its owner.
But then you stopped.
Your hand hovered over the mattress. This was his place. His role. You were building the foundation, creating this safe harbor, but this one thing… this one symbol of him… it felt like it should be his to give. It was a small thing, almost silly, but it mattered. With a soft sigh, you carried the plush wolf to the dresser and set it gently beside the stack of freshly washed onesies. You were leaving space for him, a silent invitation to step into the role he was born to play.
“Everything okay there?” Chris’s face, pixelated slightly by the screen, was filled with concern. He was in a hotel room somewhere, the backdrop unfamiliar and sterile. “You look tired.”
You smiled, rubbing your eye. “Just busy. The nesting instinct is real, I guess.” You angled the phone slightly, trying to keep the background of the living room as neutral as possible, but you knew it was too late. His gaze had sharpened.
“What’s that?” he asked, nodding to something just out of frame. “Is that… baby clothes?”
You bit your lip, feeling a blush creep up your neck. “Maybe.”
He leaned closer to the camera, his eyes scanning every corner of your world he could see. “And your hands… you’ve got paint on them. Have you been redecorating?”
There was no point in hiding it. “I’ve been working on the spare room,” you admitted softly.
A complex emotion flickered across his face—love, pride, and something else you couldn’t quite name. A shadow in his eyes. “That’s amazing,” he said, but his voice was a little tight. “I wish I could be there to see it, to help.”
“You’ll see it soon,” you promised, your own heart aching at the distance. “It’s going to be perfect.”
He forced a smile but you saw it, the quiet unease. He was grateful, you knew he was, but you also saw the flicker of guilt. He was living his dream on a world stage, but the most important moments of his life were happening at home, on a canvas he couldn’t touch. Something beautiful was being built, and he was only a spectator.