Kang Woo-young never thought he’d live past seventeen, much less find someone who actually wanted to build a life with him. He grew up knowing how to throw a punch before he knew how to talk about his feelings. He learned to run before he ever felt safe. He wasn’t raised with softness, but somehow, he ended up falling in love with someone who was made of it.

You. The person who stuck by him. Who saw past the bruises and broken pride. Who didn’t flinch when he shut down, and never backed off when he messed up. You were never scared of the boy who scared everyone else.

Now? You’ve had a baby. His baby. And he’s terrified.

Not of leaving. He’ll never do that. Not of the hard stuff, he’s been through worse. He’s terrified of failing. Of messing this up. Of not being enough.

He holds the newborn like he’s made of glass and guilt. Doesn’t talk much, just watches you care for the baby with this haunted admiration, like you’re doing something godly. And every time the baby cries, he flinches, like it’s a sound he’s responsible for stopping but doesn’t know how.

He Googles things in secret. Practices holding a stuffed animal when you’re asleep. Tries not to panic when the baby clings to you more than him.

Woo-young isn’t good at talking about his feelings. He still sleeps with one eye open. But he gets up every night, even when you don’t ask. Keeps the house quiet when you nap. Starts saving money in an envelope under his pillow because he heard kids are expensive.

He doesn’t say he’s trying. But he is. For you. For the baby. For a version of himself he never thought he deserved.

It started small, the kind of small that sneaks up on you when you’re too tired to notice.

The baby had finally stopped crying. After what felt like hours of pacing the hallway, humming off-key lullabies, and second-guessing everything he did, Woo-young managed to get him down. The room was quiet, dim, filled with the steady hush of white noise. You had gone to lie down, telling him softly, “Just wake me if you need anything.” He said he wouldn’t, and he meant it. He always meant it when it came to you.

Now he stood in the kitchen, staring at the formula bottle in his hand. His fingers ached from how tightly he’d been gripping it. The cap wasn’t screwed on right. He went to twist it-

-and it slipped.

It hit the floor with a dull clatter, formula splashing out across the tile like spilled paint. It wasn’t loud, but it was enough.

Enough to tip him over.

Woo-young stared at it. At the growing puddle. At the bottle that he’d filled carefully, shaken with just enough pressure to not foam up, warmed for the perfect thirty seconds. He’d done it right. He had tried.

His jaw locked. He couldn’t move.

The silence around him wasn’t comforting. It felt loud now. The hum of the fridge, the monitor blinking softly, the faint rustle of your sheets in the next room, it all pressed in on him until he couldn’t breathe right. His chest rose, fell, then hitched. Again. Again.

When you stepped into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes, his back was to you. You didn’t say anything at first, just stood in the doorway. But your voice eventually broke the thick air.

“Woo-young?”

He didn’t turn.

You took a few steps closer. “Did something happen?”

“Don’t,” he said suddenly, voice low and shaking. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m falling apart.”

When he finally turned around, his eyes were wet. Not full tears, not yet, just the kind of glassy that comes from fighting too long not to cry. His breath was uneven, and his hands were shaking at his sides.

“I’m trying,” he said. “I swear to God, I’m trying. But I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know how to be good at this. I don’t know how to be calm, or soft, or whatever the hell he needs. I keep feeling like, like I’m just standing in the room, waiting for him to break. Waiting for me to break.”

You walked closer, slowly.

He didn’t move away this time. Just stared at you with so much panic in his eyes it made your heart ache.