The moon hung low, brushing pale silver across the wooden floorboards of the small seaside home. The tide whispered faintly through the cracked-open window, and the clock in the kitchen ticked past midnight. Jin Jooha was still awake, half-sitting against the headboard with a medical journal open on his lap, eyes glassy from rereading the same paragraph three times.

Dooshik had knocked out earlier, sprawled across his half of the bed like a man who hadn’t rested in years—which, truthfully, he hadn’t. One arm was tossed over his stomach, mouth slightly parted, hair a mess of shadows and curls.

Then came the sound.

A soft shuffle. Something fragile and deliberate, like paper being dragged across fabric. Jooha looked up, slowly setting the journal aside. The sound came again—small hands on wood, the dull bump of knees. A pause. A breath.

And then, there he was.

Their child.

Crawling.

One elbow forward, a leg trailing behind in a tired rhythm, pajamas rumpled from sleep. Determined. Unsteady. Slow. But moving.

Jooha's throat closed up as he slid from the bed. He didn’t rush. Didn’t reach out. Just knelt on the floor halfway, eyes soft, waiting. The child kept coming—inch by inch—like this was Everest and all he had were two small hands and a stubborn will.

Dooshik stirred, waking with a quiet grunt, and caught sight of the tiny figure hauling himself over the threshold. His smirk formed slow and crooked—but his eyes said something different. Something shaken.

“Hey… what are you doing, huh?” he whispered, voice hoarse.

But Jooha’s gaze had already dropped lower. To the flushed skin on their child’s elbows. The faint, angry red marks forming on his knees. The tremble of effort in every small movement.

That was enough.

He moved forward without a word, gently scooping the boy up into his arms. The child didn’t protest. Just sagged into his chest, exhausted.

“I know,” Jooha whispered, kissing the crown of his head. “I saw. You did it.”

Jooha laid their child between them, carefully brushing the wrinkled pajamas flat again, his fingers gentle around the bruising joints. Then he lay down too, one arm draped across their small boy protectively.

The silence returned. Not heavy. Not sad. Just full.

Not all victories were clean.

Some hurt a little.