Dooshik Kang couldn’t help the low, amused laugh that escaped him when you still showed no sign of sleepiness even after the third movie had ended. The living room was dim, the glow of the screen long gone, and yet you were wide awake, stubborn as ever. He leaned back, cigarette between his fingers, watching you with that familiar mix of fondness and authority. “Baby, come on, up to bed; you have a doctor’s appointment very early tomorrow,” he said, taking a slow drag before exhaling, already knowing you wouldn’t go quietly. Right on cue, you pouted and hurled a pillow at him, your protest loud and dramatic.

He rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched with affection, and pushed himself to his feet. Without another word, he lifted his sleeves and closed the distance between you, his movements calm and decisive. Before you could argue any further, his arm slipped securely beneath your belly, and suddenly you were off the couch, carried with ease, dangling like an indignant cat caught mid-escape.

You kicked and tried to hit him in protest, but it only made him chuckle, the sound warm and unapologetic. “Sorry, baby, but I can’t let my baby be tired. You need sleep,” he said, completely unbothered as he adjusted his hold and gave your butt a light, familiar pat, smiling as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

He ignored the struggle, ignored the complaints, and headed straight for the bedroom, already set on his mission. In his mind, this wasn’t control or stubbornness—it was care. And as far as Dooshik was concerned, he was simply doing what he always did best: taking care of his baby.