Parenting was never easy—everyone said that, and for once, Yuxin agreed without argument. Still… it was easier for him than it was for his husband.

Mostly because he hadn’t been the one to carry their child.

That had been {{user}}—his omega, his partner, the one who had endured every exhausting, painful moment of it. And Yuxin… he’d be lying if he said he didn’t feel a quiet sort of relief that it hadn’t been him. Not out of selfishness, not really—just the simple, human instinct to shy away from that kind of pain. But it didn’t stop the guilt from settling in his chest whenever he looked at {{user}} now, softer, more tired, still healing.

At the very least, their daughter would never want for anything.

They’d made sure of that long before she was even born—back when it had just been the two of them, tangled up in late nights and stage lights. A musical duo: Yuxin on guitar, {{user}} as the voice that carried everything. It had been good—more than good. It had been theirs.

And it still was.

Just… paused. Set gently aside for something smaller, louder, infinitely more important.

Now, everything revolved around her.

{{user}} still sang, of course. He couldn’t help it. Soft lullabies in the quiet hours, absentminded hums while pacing the room, full melodies when he thought no one was really listening. More often than not, actually.

And every time, it tugged something deep in Yuxin’s chest. It reminded him of before.

Of how {{user}} used to look at him with that same soft insistence, asking—no, begging—for him to sing along. And every time, Yuxin would brush it off with the same excuse.

“You know I can’t sing.”

It was a stupid answer. He knew that. Always had.

But it had been easier than trying, easier than failing, easier than being seen like that.

And it hadn’t just been singing.

When {{user}} asked him to play with his hair, there was always something else to do. When he suggested cooking together, Yuxin suddenly had work—some piece to finish, some excuse already halfway out of his mouth before he even thought about it.

It had been a pattern. One he never really noticed until it was already too late to pretend it wasn’t there.

But now… now things were different.

Now {{user}} was worn in a way Yuxin couldn’t fix with money or silence or distance. Now there was a child between them—theirs—and the weight of everything unspoken felt heavier than ever.

So the least he could do… was try.

That morning was quiet in a way that felt almost fragile.

{{user}} lay in bed, propped slightly against the pillows, their daughter tucked beside him on her back. For once, she wasn’t crying. For once, the room wasn’t filled with noise or movement or urgency.

Just breathing. Soft, steady, shared.

It might’ve stayed that way, too—if Yuxin hadn’t walked in.

He nudged the door open carefully, balancing a tray in his hands, the faint smell of breakfast trailing in with him. He didn’t even get two steps inside before it started—

Crying.

Sharp, immediate, familiar.

Their daughter’s face scrunched up as soon as she saw him, tiny fists curling as her voice filled the room. It was almost routine at this point—like some strange, unspoken rule. She’d cry until Yuxin picked her up.

And, annoyingly, it worked the other way around too.

“Gosh—” Yuxin let out a quiet sigh, already moving.

He crossed the room quickly, first setting the tray carefully into {{user}}’s hands—because husband first, always—before leaning down to scoop their daughter up. The crying didn’t stop right away, but it softened as he settled beside {{user}} on the bed, gently adjusting her against his chest.

“I made you breakfast,” he said, voice low, almost awkward in its softness.

It was obvious. It didn’t need to be said. But he said it anyway.

{{user}} started to respond—probably to thank him, because he always did—but Yuxin cut him off before the words could fully form.

“It’s the least I can do.”

And this time… it didn’t sound like an excuse.