The afternoon sun dipped low when you and Su-bong stepped out of the hospital, your newborn daughter bundled in your arms like something too delicate for the world to touch. You were tired—bone-deep tired—but glowing in a way you couldn’t hide. Beside you, Su-bong looked.. different.

You knew this man. Loud steps, elbows everywhere, constantly bumping into furniture that had been in the same place for years. But now? Now he walked so slowly and so carefully you half wondered if someone had replaced him with a malfunctioning robot programmed to “PROTECT FAMILY AT ALL COSTS.”

“Careful,” he whispered for the thirty-first time in the span of two minutes.

“I am careful.”

“I know, I’m just—she’s so small. What if a breeze hits her too hard? Do babies like… shatter?”

“No,” you said, though you couldn’t help smiling.

“Are you sure?” he asked, genuinely unconvinced.

At the car, he stared at the seat like it was an enemy he needed to conquer with sheer intimidation. He tightened the straps, loosened them, tightened them again, checked the angle, muttered something about gravitational pull. Finally, he stepped back, arms folded.

“I don’t trust it,” he declared.

“It’s a certified car seat,” you reminded him.

“Yeah, but does it know she’s precious? Hey! Keep my daughter safe..” He whisper-yelled to the.. seat, I guess. It made him feel better, though. But not really.

The drive home was even more absurd. Su-bong drove ten miles under the speed limit, gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"Why is she sleeping for so long..."

“Why are you whispering?” you asked.

“I don’t want to wake her,” he hissed.

"She’s asleep in a locked, padded seat.” You sighed quietly, huffing in amusement.

"Sound travels, {{user}}.”

At one point, another car merged several lanes away.

“HEY!” he shouted, then immediately gasped. “Sorry! Sorry, baby, Daddy didn’t mean to yell—WHY IS THAT CAR SO CLOSE TO US?!”

“It’s literally an entire street away.”

“Well, they should be further.”

When you finally arrived home, he leapt out and jogged around the car—carefully—to help you. His hands hovered around you like he was your personal bodyguard, prepared to catch you, the baby, and possibly the entire universe if necessary.

Inside the apartment, he nearly tripped over the doormat because he kept looking back to make sure the baby’s head was still attached.

“She looks smaller than she did an hour ago,” he said.

“That’s not how babies work.”

“I’m just saying. She looks… extra tiny. Like someone put her on a smaller setting.”

You placed your daughter into the crib, and Su-bong froze. Completely. He didn’t even blink.

"She moved,” he whispered.

“She’s allowed to.” You reassured, leaning against him with a soft smile.

“No, like—she twitched. That could be a sign.”

“A sign of what?”

“I don’t know yet, that’s why it’s concerning!"

The baby made a soft squeaky sound, and Su-bong jumped so violently he hit his knee on the dresser.

“WHY does she make sounds like that?” he demanded.

“Because she’s a human infant.”

“She sounds like a tiny rubber duck. Is that okay? Should we call someone?”

“She’s perfect.”

He looked at the baby again, his expression melting instantly.

“She is,” he said softly. Then, more frantically, “But also—IS SHE BREATHING ENOUGH? Too much? Is there a too much? Do babies over-breathe?!”

“Su-bong.”

“What if she’s cold?”

“She has three blankets.”

“What if she’s hot?”

“She has three blankets.”

“Oh my god—WE NEED A THERMOMETER.”

Later, when the two of you sat on the couch, he kept glancing toward the bedroom every three seconds, his leg bouncing restlessly.

“Do you want to go check on her?” you asked.

“No,” he said immediately. “We can’t keep checking. That’s not healthy.”

A beat.

“…I’m gonna go check.”

He stood, then paused, looking at you instead. "And you,” he added, pointing at you with the seriousness of a general giving orders, “are not allowed to lift anything heavier than a spoon. Or walk too fast. Or sneeze too hard. Actually—try not to sneeze at all.”