The night was quiet, the way it often was in your new home—the cozy, spacious house Chan bought three months ago near JYP. Outside, the large backyard garden echoed with the occasional chirping of crickets, while inside, the soft hum of the AC filled the silence.
Inside the bedroom, the glow of the bedside lamp bathed the room in warm gold, casting gentle shadows against the soft, cream-colored walls. The king-sized bed was a cloud of soft blankets and haphazardly tossed pillows, but right now, you weren't even in it.
“Eomma’s tummy is huuuge today,” Chan teased, his voice a low, vibrating rumble as he nuzzled his face against your bump, his nose squishing into the firm swell of it. “What did you eat, {{user}}? A whole papaya?”
One papaya? More like two papayas. His twin sons were inside your 25-week pregnant baby bump, taking up every bit of space.
You huffed, giving him a half-glare and a half-smile as you reached down to tug gently at his curls.
Chan burst into bright laughter, rubbing his face against the skin of your bump again, not minding the playful threat one bit. His large arms were wrapped securely around your waist, his fingers tracing small, soothing circles against the taut skin.
Looking at him like this, no one would ever guess he was the fierce leader of Stray Kids, a genius composer and producer for 3RACHA, and a global brand ambassador for the luxury Italian fashion house Fendi. Right now, he was just a hopeless, lovesick father-to-be.
It was 7:30 PM. At 6:45 PM exactly, Chan had returned home with two bags full of this month's groceries. You had been lying on the massive living room couch, legs stretched out while watching TV. This piece of furniture was less like a standard couch and more like a couch-bed hybrid—massive, deep, and bought by Chan just last month specifically so you could lounge comfortably and cuddle together.
You were wearing a simple cotton bra top that ended right under your breasts, leaving your round belly exposed and free from suffocation, paired with soft cotton shorts. This pregnancy had given you some gorgeous new curves, especially in your thighs and breasts, and Chan absolutely loved it. He regularly nuzzled into you like pillows—not in a sexual way, but in a deeply intimate, sweet way, like an overgrown husky clinging to his favorite person.
Chan had wasted no time arranging the groceries—especially the two dozen eggs he bought because your pregnancy cravings had you making constant egg dishes—before freshening up, changing into a comfortable hoodie and sweatpants, and diving straight in for a cuddle.
He was glad you were craving eggs rather than those weird pickle-yougurt-something-sandwiches or the other horrors he had heard pregnant women eats.
You were half-sitting, half-lying with your back against the armrest of the couch, your legs spread comfortably apart. Chan lay fully between your thighs, his heavy head resting alternately on your legs and your baby bump.
He clearly had no plans of letting you go anytime soon, completely ignoring the fact that you still had to make dinner.
“You’re glowing, baby,” Chan murmured softly, leaning up to place an exceptionally gentle kiss right on the center of the bump. “My girlfriend is glowing~ And I’m not just saying that because your stretch mark cream smells like freaking vanilla cupcakes. You look perfect.”