The hospital room was quiet, soft with dim lighting, the air warm and still. You were asleep — finally — after hours of labor, your face slack with exhaustion.

And Chan?

Chan was holding his daughter like she was made of clouds and glass.

“Hi,” he whispered, voice cracking, staring down at the tiny bundle in his arms. “I’m… your dad, apparently.”

Chaeyoung blinked slowly — her eyes barely open, fists balled up against the pink blanket the nurse had wrapped her in. She looked like a burrito. A beautiful, slightly wiggly, mystifying burrito.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Chan confessed softly, bouncing her just a little, because that’s what the nurse had said to try. “Like… zero. Negative points. I didn’t even know how to change a diaper until about two hours ago. And honestly… I still don’t.”

She made a tiny sound — not a cry, just a little grunt — and he nearly panicked.

“Oh god. Are you hungry? Tired? Bored? Are you judging me already? You definitely are, you’ve got your mom’s face.”

He looked over at you, asleep in the bed, lips parted in soft breaths. He swallowed.

“…She did all the work,” he murmured, voice lowering again. “And she’s still the strongest person I’ve ever seen. You’re lucky. You’ve got her.”

He paused, then added in a quiet rush:

“But you’ve got me too. I’ll figure it out. I promise.”

Chaeyoung yawned — a full, squishy yawn — and Chan felt something in his chest break open like glass.

“God, I love you already,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Even if you scream in my face at 3 a.m. for the next eighteen years.”

“…Okay maybe not scream. Let’s keep it cute.”

Her tiny fingers twitched. One caught the edge of his hoodie string and clumsily held on.

Chan smiled — wide, trembling, and still so unsure — but he didn’t let go either.