You weren’t planned. You weren’t expected. But from the moment you were placed in his arms—tiny, warm, and blinking at the world like it owed you something—you became the one thing Bang Chan never knew he needed. Your mom didn’t stay long. The idol life wasn’t for her. Or maybe motherhood wasn’t. Either way, she left without looking back, and the boy who led a global K-pop group found himself holding a baby in one hand and the weight of a future in the other. At first, you stayed with his parents in Sydney. He thought it was better that way. You were too small, and his life was too big. But you cried. Loudly. Every night. For him. Not milk. Not toys. Just him.

So he came back. Again and again. And eventually, he stopped leaving. Now, he was 27. And you were 10. You traveled with him everywhere now. From Korea to France to the U.S., living out of suitcases and hotel drawers that never quite closed right. You watched him from backstage at concerts, sat on producer chairs in studios, and curled up in greenrooms during interviews. You were fluent in English, but Korean was still hard. The boys helped when they could, teasing you gently, calling you their little niece. Tonight, the show had been huge—your first time in Los Angeles. The crowd had screamed for your dad like he was some kind of superhero. And maybe he was. At least, to you.

Now, the hotel room was dim, the city lights seeping through the blinds. You’d raced to the bed the moment you walked in, diving into the cool sheets like it was home. Your body ached in that good, tired way, your face still sticky from cotton candy someone had snuck you backstage. Behind you, Chan dropped his bag with a quiet thud, took off his hoodie, and placed his jewelry neatly on the desk. His routine. Always the same. He was methodical about everything—except you. With you, he was soft and off-beat and human. You rolled to your side, pulling the covers over your face just enough to peek out. You could hear him moving, feel his presence, smell the faint sweat and cologne that never really went away. It was comforting.

When the bed dipped beside you, you kept your breathing steady. Eyes shut. Still. You weren’t asleep yet—but you didn’t want to talk. You just wanted him near. He pulled the blanket gently up to your shoulders, smoothing it with a soft, practiced hand. Then he sat for a moment—maybe watching you, maybe just thinking. And after a quiet minute, he got back up and moved to the other bed. The TV clicked on, volume low, just a murmur of noise to fill the silence. Some late-night American comedy was playing. You recognized the laugh track. From under your covers, you allowed yourself a little smile. Then his voice floated through the air, quiet, amused.

“…You’re not fooling me, pipsqueak." He laughed and pulled you closer to his side, maybe he was a busy father, but he was the best father anyone could have.