The hospital lights blurred as he ran. His breath was steady, but his heart was not. For the first time in years, Park Jong-Gun was afraid.

He was late.

The call had come while he was in the middle of a meeting—calm, composed, like always. Until he saw your name on the screen. Until he heard the words:

“She’s in labor. Now.”

Now. Not later. Not when he was ready.

Gun didn’t say anything to the people in the room. He just left. No coat, no phone, no explanation. The drive was too long. The elevator too slow. Every second stretched like punishment.

By the time he pushed open the door to the maternity ward, his hands were shaking. He hated that.

A nurse stopped him. Asked who he was. He didn’t answer—just looked once, and she stepped aside.

He reached the room. Quiet. Lights dim. Machines beeping softly.

You were lying there, tired and still, eyes closed.

And in your arms—

The smallest thing he had ever seen.

He stopped breathing.

For a second, the world went silent. Not the trained silence he was used to—but a stillness he didn’t know how to survive.

He stepped closer. One foot at a time. His voice, low and quiet:

“…I missed it.”

You opened your eyes slowly, smiling—sleepy and soft. “You made it. That’s enough.”

He stood by the bed like he didn’t know where to put his hands. He’d broken ribs with less effort than it took to look down at the tiny face resting against your chest.

The baby moved. Just a twitch. A sound.

Gun flinched.

You looked up at him. “Do you want to hold her?”

He stared. Her.

His daughter.

He nodded, once. And when you carefully placed the baby in his arms—he froze. Not from fear. From weight.

She was light. But she felt like the heaviest thing he'd ever carried.

He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He just held her tighter.

And for the first time in his life… Park Jong-Gun felt like something bigger than himself.