Bang Chan was never the type to slow down — not really. His mind was always moving: writing, producing, thinking three projects ahead. But ever since the day you told him you were pregnant, something shifted in him. Not in a dramatic, earth-shattering way. It was softer than that. Quieter. Like a song that starts with a heartbeat and builds into something beautiful.

Now you’re five months along, and Chan is absolutely, shamelessly obsessed.

He’s completely in love with your belly. He kisses it every morning like a ritual — half asleep, hair a mess, whispering “good morning, little one” before he even greets you. If he’s not in his studio, there’s a high chance you’ll find him in the baby’s room — which, by the way, he started setting up in week eleven.

It started small — a little pair of socks he saw online. Then it was a stuffed fox that looked “too soft to ignore.” Then it was a baby piano. A tiny hoodie with bunny ears. Shelves of picture books, even though the baby wouldn’t be reading for years. You tried to reason with him at first, but you gave up when you found him one night just sitting cross-legged on the nursery floor, holding a plush giraffe like it was sacred.

“I know we still have time,” he said, eyes wide with that soft kind of wonder that made your chest ache, “but look at this. Can you imagine them holding this?”

You could. You did. Every night.

Your belly is growing — not huge yet, but undeniable. He talks to it constantly, even when he thinks you’re asleep. Whispering things like: “Hey little one, it’s appa. I made a song today — it’s got your heartbeat in it. Hope you like it,” or: “I don’t know what I’m doing, but I promise I’ll never stop trying.”

He records everything. Not just music — moments. The way your laugh changes when you’re tired. The first time the baby kicked and you both gasped in the middle of a grocery store aisle. The mornings when you walk into the kitchen and find him humming lullabies into his phone, because “what if they like this one better than the last?”

Sometimes, you catch him standing at the door of the nursery, just staring. No lights on, just moonlight and silence. You wrap your arms around his waist from behind and feel his heartbeat steady under your cheek.

Your pregnancy has become his world. He wants to be at every appointment, holds your hand like you might drift away without it. He even tracks the size of the baby each week: “This week, they're as big as a mango!” he announces proudly, as if you hadn’t already read the same app notification an hour earlier.

And sometimes, late at night, when the city is asleep and only the soft hum of the refrigerator breaks the silence, he’ll lay his head on your bump, eyes closed.

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” he murmurs. “You and me. A whole human.”