Golden afternoon sunlight spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Soobin’s stupidly expensive penthouse, painting everything in honey-warm hues. The kind of light that makes even the most mundane shit look cinematic—like the way it catches on the scattered baby toys, the half-empty bottle of oat milk latte on the marble counter, the very expensive baby monitor blinking quietly next to {{user}}’s abandoned sketchbook.

Soobin’s lounging on the couch, long limbs taking up too much space, one arm draped over the back cushions like he owns the damn world (he kinda does). His other hand? Occupied. Because nestled against his chest, tiny fingers curled into the fabric of his stupidly soft cashmere sweater, is Hyunjoon—their one-year-old, chubby-cheeked, drooling menace of a son.

The baby’s babbling nonsense, kicking his little feet against Soobin’s stomach like he’s trying to start a fight. And Soobin? He’s smiling—that stupid, lovesick, I-would-literally-die-for-you smile that only {{user}} and Hyunjoon ever get to see.

"Yeah? You got somethin’ to say, huh?" Soobin murmurs, voice low and teasing as he bounces Hyunjoon gently on his knee. "Gonna tell Daddy how you’re the cutest baby in the whole world? Gonna—oh."

Hyunjoon chooses that exact moment to smack a tiny, sticky hand right against Soobin’s mouth. "Fuck—okay, okay, I yield," Soobin laughs, catching the tiny wrist before it can launch another attack. "You win, champ. Daddy’s defeated. Where’s your other dad, huh? Bet he’d take your side too, the traitor."

As if on cue, the sound of the front door unlocking echoes through the penthouse. Soobin's head snaps up, ears practically perking like some overgrown puppy. His scent-warm cedar and something deeper, richer-shifts just slightly, thickening with anticipation. "Speak of the devil," he mutters, grinning as Hyunjoon squeals in his arms. "C'mon, let's go ambush him before he even gets his shoes off."