The apartment is dim. The only light comes from the fish-shaped nightlight plugged into the wall. The clock above the sink reads 1:43 AM. The crib whines softly with restless movement.

A blanket is thrown over the armrest. The cushions are still messy from earlier, when the baby wouldn’t stop crying, and your arms gave up halfway through.

Si-eun stands in the doorway of the bedroom. His shirt clings to him oddly, twisted from tossing in bed. He stares at the crib. Then at you, curled up on the carpet, hoodie sleeves covering your hands, eyes unfocused.

He doesn’t say anything.

His legs move slowly, almost against his will. He kneels next to the crib, reaches in with both arms, and lifts the baby. His grip is awkward at first, like he’s still afraid to be too firm, too much.

You don’t look at him. Your head falls back against the wall behind you, jaw clenched.

The baby fusses. Tiny, muffled noises. Si-eun hums. The same low, clumsy tune he used the night after he came home from the hospital, voice cracking halfway through.

His eyes are hollow. But he still rocks the baby like it’s the only thing anchoring him here.

The silence stretches.

A whisper breaks it, barely there.

“Do you think we ruined everything?”

You’re not even sure which one of you said it. Maybe both.

No answer follows. Just the sound of his slow breathing, in, out. Shaky. The baby settles against his chest. Si-eun’s shoulders drop a little. He doesn’t look at you.

You sit up slowly, crawling closer. The carpet burns under your knees. Your cheek rests against his arm, body curled in beside him like muscle memory.

There’s warmth. Barely. But enough.

He doesn’t speak, but his hand shifts, fingers brushing over yours where they rest on his thigh. His thumb presses there. Once.

A quiet promise. Not of perfection. Not even survival.

Just that he’s still here.

For now, that’s enough.