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The first sign was the kimchi.
You’d always loved it, the fiery, fermented crunch a staple in your shared apartment. But lately, the mere thought of it sent a wave of nausea through you. Minho had brought home a fresh jar from the market, a special brand you adored, and set it on the counter with a proud smile. You’d forced a grin back, your stomach churning, and mumbled something about not being very hungry.
He didn’t push. He just nodded, his eyes, dark and perceptive, lingering on you for a moment longer than usual before he put the kimchi in the fridge. That night, he made you plain soybean paste stew with soft tofu, skipping the usual spicy add-ins, claiming he was in the mood for something simple. You were too relieved to question it.
A week later, it was the sleep. You were dozing off on the sofa at six-thirty in the evening, curled around a pillow while Minho was in the middle of telling you about his day at the company. He’d been talking about a new dance break, his hands moving animatedly, when he trailed off. You blinked your eyes open to find him watching you. There was no annoyance, just a soft, unreadable expression on his face.
“Am I boring you?” he asked, his voice a low murmur.
You shook your head, rubbing your eyes. “No, just… tired. Didn’t sleep well last night.”
“Again?” He sat down beside you, his weight dipping the cushion. “That’s the fourth time this week.”
You just shrugged, unable to explain the bone-deep exhaustion that had been plaguing you. He reached out, his thumb stroking your cheek, and his gaze was so intense, so focused, that you felt a flutter of nerves. It was like he was trying to see right through your skin, to read the story written on your bones.
But the real giveaway, the one you couldn’t ignore, was the way your hands had started to drift. You’d catch yourself resting them on your lower stomach, a subconscious gesture of comfort. When you were watching TV, when you were waiting for the kettle to boil, when you were curled up in bed. It was a protective, almost maternal gesture, and you didn’t even realize you were doing it until you saw Minho’s eyes follow your hands one afternoon.
You were sitting at the small dining table, scrolling through your phone, and he was leaning against the counter, drinking a glass of water. You’d placed your hand flat against your abdomen, right below your navel, a familiar warmth spreading through you. He didn’t say a word. He just watched, his knuckles white as he gripped the glass. He saw it. He saw everything.
And the most terrifying part? He didn’t say anything.
He just waited.
Days turned into a week of quiet tension. You felt like you were living in a bubble, suspended between a secret and its inevitable reveal. You were pregnant. The little plastic stick with its two pink lines was tucked away in the back of your underwear drawer, a confirmation of the suspicion that had been growing inside you. You were terrified, not of the idea of a baby, but of what it would mean for Minho. His career was his everything. He was Lee Know of Stray Kids, a global idol whose life was meticulously planned and executed. A baby was the ultimate wild card.
You watched him, too. You saw the subtle shifts in his behavior that mirrored your own unspoken changes. He started making you oatmeal with berries for breakfast, something he knew was easy on the stomach. He’d come home from practice with a carton of your favorite banana milk, even if it was out of his way. One evening, you woke up to find him quietly rearranging the mountain of decorative pillows on your bed, plumping them and positioning them just so you could sleep more comfortably on your side. He never mentioned it in the morning, but you knew.
He was giving you space, but he was also building a fortress of care around you, brick by silent brick. He was steadying you, anchoring you, even as your own world felt like it was tilting on its axis. The quiet was both a comfort and a torment. You wanted him to ask, to break the silence, but you were also petrified of what would happen when he did.
Finally, you couldn’t take it anymore. The secret was a heavy stone in your gut, and you needed to set it down, no matter the consequences.
You found him in the living room after dinner, meticulously cleaning the lenses of his camera. The soft click of the brushes and the low hum of the city outside were the only sounds. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the calm of the room.
“Minho,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.
He looked up, his expression immediately softening as he took in your state. He set his camera down, giving you his full, undivided attention. “Yeah?”
You twisted your fingers together, your palms sweating. “Can we...can we talk for a minute?”
“Of course.” He patted the space on the sofa next to him. “Sit down.”
You sank onto the cushion, your hands trembling in your lap. You couldn’t meet his gaze, focusing instead on a loose thread on your jeans. You took a deep breath, the words catching in your throat.
“I…I went to the doctor,” you started, your voice shaky. “And… I’ve been feeling really weird lately. Tired, and sick, and…” You risked a glance at him. He was just watching you, his face a mask of calm patience. There was no panic, no shock.
“I’m pregnant,” you whispered, tears welling in your eyes.
You braced yourself, your entire body tensing for his reaction—a gasp, a question, a moment of stunned silence. You were prepared for confusion, for fear, for the weight of his reality crashing down.
But he just nodded. A slow, steady dip of his head.
“I know,” he said, his voice as calm and quiet as the room.
Your breath hitched. “You… you know?”
“Mhm.” He reached out and took your trembling hand, his grip warm and firm. “I’ve known for a while.”
The tears you’d been holding back finally spilled over, tracing hot paths down your cheeks. It wasn’t a rejection, but it wasn't the joyous embrace you’d fantasized about either. It was… Minho. Steady, observant, infuriatingly calm Minho. He just knew.
“How?” you choked out.
He gently wiped a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “You hate kimchi now,” he said softly. “You fall asleep on the couch before the sun goes down. And you keep putting your hand on your stomach, like you’re trying to hold something safe.” He paused, his eyes searching yours. “I notice things about you.”
A sob escaped your lips, a messy, complicated sound of relief and lingering fear. He didn’t pull away. He just wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. He held you while you cried, his hand stroking your back in a slow, rhythmic motion that was more comforting than any words could be. He was your anchor in the storm of your own emotions, his solid presence a promise that you weren’t alone.
Later that night, long after the tears had dried and you were tucked into bed, the weight of the day settled over you. You were facing away from him, curled on your side, and the room was dark and still. You thought he was asleep, his breathing even and deep beside you.
Then you felt his arm slide around your waist, pulling you gently back against him. His face nestled into the crook of your neck, and you could feel the soft puff of his breath against your skin.
“Are you scared?” you whispered into the darkness.
He was quiet for a long moment, so long that you thought he wasn’t going to answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was a raw, vulnerable murmur you’d rarely heard.
“Terrified,” he admitted, his arms tightening around you. “I’m terrified of losing you.”
Your heart ached for him. You turned in his arms until you were facing him, your hands coming up to cup his face in the dim light. “You’re not going to lose me.”
“I know,” he said, though his voice trembled slightly. “But what if… what if something happens? The pregnancy, or the baby, or… I read things. I know things can go wrong. The thought of something happening to you…” He trailed off, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. “The baby… I’m not scared of the baby. I’m scared for you. You’re my whole world.”
You leaned in and kissed him, a soft, lingering press of your lips against his. It was a kiss of reassurance, of love, of a promise that you were in this together. “We’re going to be okay,” you whispered against his mouth. “We’re a team.”
He kissed you back, a deep, desperate kiss that tasted of fear and love and a future you were about to build together. In that moment, he wasn’t the unflappable Lee Know on stage. He was just Minho, your Minho, scared of losing the one thing that mattered most.
The next morning, the dynamic in your apartment had shifted. The silent tension was gone, replaced by a new, tangible layer of care. It was in the little things, the things only you would notice.
When you woke up, he was already in the kitchen. The smell of something savory and not-too-strong filled the air. He’d made you scrambled eggs with spinach and a single piece of toast, the crusts cut off, just the way you liked it when you were feeling queasy.
“Morning,” he said, placing the plate in front of you. He’d also poured a small glass of milk and set out your prenatal vitamin, which you’d forgotten to take.
You looked at the plate, then at him. “How did you…”
“I read the book you left on the nightstand,” he said, a little sheepishly. “The one about the first trimester. It said you’d need more iron and protein.”
You felt a wave of emotion so strong it almost knocked you over. He hadn’t just accepted the news; he was diving in headfirst, researching and preparing in his own quiet, thorough way.
Throughout the day, his attentiveness continued. You were sitting on the sofa, trying to read a book, but you couldn’t get comfortable. Every position seemed to strain your back. Without a word, Minho got up, disappeared into the bedroom, and came back with two of his fluffy pillows. He carefully positioned one behind your lower back and another under your feet, his movements precise and gentle.
“Better?” he asked, adjusting the pillow behind you with a focused expression.
You sighed in relief as the pressure eased. “So much better. Thank you.”
He just nodded, his eyes lingering on you for a moment before he went back to his own book. But you saw it. The way he watched you when he thought you weren’t looking. It wasn’t a stare of suspicion anymore, but one of profound, almost fierce, protectiveness.
That evening, you were scrolling through baby names on your phone, a secret little indulgence. You were so engrossed you didn’t notice him come up behind you until you felt his chin rest gently on your shoulder.
“Any contenders?” he asked, his voice soft in your ear.
You jumped slightly, tilting your head back to look at him. “Just looking. It’s too early.”
“Never too early to start thinking,” he said, his eyes scanning the screen. He pointed to a name. “I like that one.”
It was a simple, classic name. Strong and steady. Just like him.
As the weeks passed, his quiet devotion became your new normal. He learned which smells triggered your nausea and banned them from the house. He’d come home with weird food combinations you craved—peach Milkis and iced tea, orange sherbet and potato chips—without you ever having to ask. He never made you feel silly about it. He’d just hand you the bag with a small, knowing smile.
One afternoon, you were sitting by the window, watching the rain streak down the glass. Your hand, as it so often did now, was resting on the gentle swell of your belly. You were just starting to show, a soft curve that was more than just bloating. You were lost in thought, thinking about the tiny life growing inside you, when you felt his gaze.
You turned your head to find him standing in the doorway of the living room, just looking at you. There was such an incredible depth of emotion in his eyes—love, fear, wonder, and a fierce, unwavering certainty. He wasn’t just looking at you; he was looking at his family.
He didn’t say anything. He just walked over, knelt on the floor in front of you, and gently placed his hand over yours on your stomach. His long fingers splayed across your skin, warm and steady. He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to your belly, right over his hand.
It was a silent vow. A promise to the baby, and to you, that he would always be there. That his quiet fear would never overshadow his unwavering stability. That he would be the anchor for your little family, no matter how stormy the seas got.
You threaded your fingers through his soft hair, your heart overflowing with a love so immense it felt like it might burst. You had been so scared to tell him, so terrified of rocking his perfectly constructed world. But you realized now that you weren’t the wild card. You were the missing piece. And Lee Know, in his quiet, observant, all-encompassing way, had known it all along.