Chapter Text
The day after the twins were born passed in a haze of tender exhaustion.
Dokja winced as he sat up in bed, his shirt damp and clinging to his chest. His nipples throbbed, swollen and leaking, a constant reminder of his new reality. From the nursery, the soft cries of the twins grew louder. He forced himself up, wobbling slightly as Joonghyuk groggily trailed behind him, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.
Haneul was the louder of the two this morning, her white hair glowing softly in the moonlight that filtered through the nursery curtains. Dokja lifted her with practiced arms and shushed her gently, easing his shirt down to nurse her. She latched on immediately, her tiny hands curling against his skin. Relief flooded him with the first pull—tinged with a sharp ache, but familiar now.
Joonghyuk went to Eunbyeol, who was fidgeting in her crib, her obsidian-black hair sticking up in tousled tufts. He picked her up with surprising gentleness, rocking her while waiting his turn.
Once Haneul had finished, Dokja passed her carefully to Joonghyuk, who cradled her in one arm while settling Eunbyeol against Dokja’s chest. The feeding continued without fanfare, only the quiet sound of soft suckling and Joonghyuk’s low hum, which he reserved only for moments like these.
When Eunbyeol had her fill, Dokja nuzzled her cheek, breathing in the warm, sweet scent of milk. She squeaked a giggle, flinching at the puff of air on her skin. He smiled, brushing her hair back gently. “Oh, what would I do without you?” he whispered.
He rocked her slowly, humming the lullaby his mother once sang to him, the same one that had survived memory, grief, and now lived again in the hush of this nursery.
Joonghyuk joined in with a quiet hum, his voice deeper but perfectly in tune. As Dokja laid Eunbyeol in the crib beside her sister, Joonghyuk stepped up behind him, wrapping his arms around Dokja’s waist and resting his chin against his shoulder. He nuzzled the crook of Dokja’s neck, warm breath brushing against his skin.
“Sleep, Dokja,” Joonghyuk murmured, guiding him gently back toward their room. “You are doing so well.”
And in that moment—surrounded by warmth, soft breathing, and the weight of love—Dokja believed it.
The days settled into a rhythm—uneven, a little chaotic, but theirs.
Mornings began with soft cries echoing down the hallway and the rustle of blankets as Dokja stirred awake, eyelids heavy, chest already aching with milk. By the time he made it to the nursery, Joonghyuk would usually be there first, hair sleep-tousled, half-buttoned pajama shirt hanging loose as he gently rocked one of the twins.
“Which one was it today?” Dokja would whisper, voice rough with sleep.
“Haneul,” Joonghyuk would answer simply, cradling her against his chest. “But Eunbyeol woke up out of spite.”
Dokja snorted every time.
They moved around each other in a kind of practiced clumsiness—trading babies mid-feed, half-assembling bottles, wiping spit-up off their clothes without flinching. Joonghyuk didn’t even blink anymore when he found himself holding a used nursing pad or walking through the apartment shirtless with burp cloths draped over each shoulder.
By mid-morning, Dokja would be curled up on the living room couch with both babies sprawled across his chest like two warm, wiggly weights. Haneul liked curling up along his ribs, her white hair soft as silk against his skin. Eunbyeol, ever the squirmier one, would kick until she got Joonghyuk’s fingers around hers.
Joonghyuk would sit on the floor beside them, brushing Eunbyeol’s fine black hair with a gentle, obsessive care. Sometimes, he braided in tiny flowers from the windowsill planters, his face furrowed in concentration.
“Is that… a crown?” Dokja asked one afternoon, squinting at the masterpiece of tiny blossoms and loops Joonghyuk was crafting in their daughter’s hair.
“She is royalty,” Joonghyuk said without looking up.
Dokja didn’t argue.
They ate meals sprawled across floor mats now, too tired to bother with chairs. Joonghyuk cooked most days—simple things, lots of rice and fish and savory broth—and fed Dokja between baby feedings, tucking warm bites between his lips like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Sometimes, after dinner, when the twins were finally down for the night, they curled up together on the couch. Joonghyuk’s tail would wrap loosely around Dokja’s ankle, and Dokja would fall asleep with his head on Joonghyuk’s thigh, one hand resting instinctively over his chest, as if protecting the phantom weight of the girls.
It was soft. It was slow. It was more love than either of them knew how to name.
One evening, Dokja caught Joonghyuk staring at the nursery from the hallway, quiet and unmoving.
“What?” he asked, brushing his damp hair back as he walked up beside him.
Joonghyuk’s arms were crossed, his expression unreadable. “Sometimes,” he murmured, “I look at them and think… they can’t possibly be real.”
Dokja leaned into him, letting his head rest against Joonghyuk’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Me too.”
He felt Joonghyuk’s hand slide into his, fingers lacing through with a deliberate slowness
They stood like that until the soft sound of Haneul’s hiccups stirred them from the quiet, and without a word, they returned to the rhythm of their strange, miraculous little life.
The first week after the twins were born passed in a haze of half-slept nights, warm bottles, and quiet lullabies. The nursery, once pristine and quiet, was now the heart of the apartment—blankets draped over chairs, a faint scent of milk lingering in the air, and a rotating cast of visitors tiptoeing in with gifts and excuses to coo over the babies.
Yoo Sangah was the first.
She knocked lightly and peeked in with a box of homemade meals balanced in one arm. “I brought soup,” she whispered, then softened the moment she saw them.
Dokja was in the rocker, shirt rumpled and half-open, Haneul curled in one arm, still sleepily suckling. Eunbyeol was tucked into Joonghyuk’s lap, his large hands cradling her tiny frame with focused, almost reverent attention
“They’re beautiful,” Sangah murmured, crouching beside Joonghyuk. “They really take after you both.”
Dokja laughed softly. “You should’ve seen us the first night. We were a mess.”
“I bet,” she said, setting the box on the nearby table. “You look better than I expected, though.”
“I’m running on soup and two hours of sleep,” Dokja said dryly, but his smile didn’t fade.
Heewon and Hyunsung came by next, slipping in together during one quiet afternoon while the girls napped.
“Do we need to wash our hands or something?” Heewon asked, holding out a small bag of baby clothes.
“Only if you plan to juggle them,” Dokja replied, easing back onto the couch with a soft sigh. He looked so tired, but so content—one arm curled around Haneul, her white hair blending into his shirt.
Hyunsung was quiet as he stepped closer, peering down at the crib. “They’re so small.”
“They’re getting bigger already,” Joonghyuk said, without looking up from folding the laundry. “Eunbyeol’s grip is stronger than yesterday.”
“She’s stubborn,” Dokja added, a touch of fondness in his voice. “Won’t sleep unless someone hums to her.”
Heewon snorted. “That sounds like payback. You were always the fussy one, weren’t you?”
Dokja just shrugged, too tired to deny it.
Later that week, Jihye and Namwoon barged in under the guise of “helping,” which quickly turned into Jihye pacing with Haneul in her arms while Namwoon nervously hovered nearby.
“She blinked at me,” Namwoon whispered like he was reporting a miracle.
“She’s a baby, Namwoon,” Jihye replied, but she didn’t hand Haneul back either.
Meanwhile, Dokja had nodded off in the corner of the nursery, seated in the rocker with his head tipped back and his arms slack. Eunbyeol was still latched to his chest, dozing between gulps, her little fist curled against his ribs.
Joonghyuk stepped in just as Namwoon started to panic.
“Should we—should we wake him?”
Joonghyuk shook his head once, then moved toward the rocker. With quiet care, he lifted Eunbyeol away and into his arms, her tiny mouth still making soft sounds of protest. She calmed as soon as her cheek pressed against his shoulder.
Then, wordlessly, he knelt beside Dokja.
He brushed the hair from his eyes, wiped the damp fabric of his shirt where milk had leaked, and pressed a kiss to his temple. Dokja didn’t stir.
“You should go lie down,” Heewon whispered behind him.
“I will,” Joonghyuk murmured, still kneeling. “Just a little longer.”
When Dokja finally did stir, it was to the quiet warmth of the bedroom, the scent of clean sheets, and Joonghyuk’s arms wrapped around him from behind.
“How long was I out?” he mumbled.
“Not long enough,” Joonghyuk said.
But Dokja just hummed, turning his face into Joonghyuk’s shoulder. “Are they okay?”
“They’re asleep. Sangah and Heewon are still out there, watching them.”
Dokja nodded, eyes fluttering shut again. “Good… remind me to thank them later.”
“I will.”
And as the room went still again, Joonghyuk whispered, “You’re doing so well,” his voice low and steady, like a promise.
Years passed, quiet and golden.
The twins grew, and with them, the apartment changed—picture frames slowly filled the walls, each one capturing crooked smiles and chubby cheeks smeared with food or paint. The fridge became a mosaic of childish drawings: dragons with too many wings, stick-figure families with uneven horns, stars and flowers and sometimes just messy scribbles signed with careful, blocky letters.
Laughter rang through the rooms like sunlight. The sound of little feet racing from the hallway to the den became familiar, followed by the thud of someone tripping and the inevitable “I’m okay!” shouted from the floor.
The apartment and Joonghyuk’s den blurred together into one shared home. Some nights they all curled up under soft blankets on the couch, warm from the hearth, the girls falling asleep mid-story. Other times they dragged their bedding into the den, the twins claiming they wanted to sleep “like real dragons.” Joonghyuk never said no to that.
Over time, two more children became part of the rhythm—a pair of friends who never really left after one too many playdates. Their parents worked long shifts, and Dokja, without hesitation, opened their home.
“We have the space,” he said when Sangah asked. “And they feel like ours, too.”
He meant it.
The days were busy, full of meals and scraped knees, school drop-offs and the occasional yelling match over whose turn it was to use the tablet. But there was always dinner together. Always bedtime stories. Always arms to fall asleep in.
Dokja returned to work in the labs eventually—part-time at first, then gradually more. He and Sangah fell back into their easy rhythm, joined often by Seolhwa, the three of them trading off projects and ideas between sips of lukewarm tea and updates about the kids.
“Parenthood suits you,” Seolhwa once told him, flipping through a clipboard.
“I think I’m just too tired to mess things up,” he replied with a soft laugh.
But inside, Dokja knew the truth: he had built something he never thought he deserved. A family. One made of warmth and patience and presence. One he chose and was chosen by in return.
There were arguments, of course. Sleepless nights. Tears. The occasional slammed door or shouted word. But the house always settled afterward—voices quieted, arms opened, and apologies came easy when you loved this much.
And every night, as Dokja stood brushing his teeth beside Joonghyuk, or stepped over toys on his way to bed, or found a crumpled drawing of “our family” tucked into his work bag, he would think—
This. All of it.
I would never change a thing.
But change is inevitable. Weither it is good or bad it is up to fate.
It was a quiet morning when the letter came.
Dokja was at the kitchen table, sipping lukewarm tea while helping Eunbyeol glue glitter stars onto a homemade birthday card for one of their playmates. Haneul sat cross-legged on the floor nearby, carefully feeding slices of pear to her favorite plush dragon.
Joonghyuk returned from the front door, envelope in hand, expression unreadable. He set it down beside Dokja without a word.
The seal on it was familiar: the rehabilitation program’s crest, etched in soft silver ink.
Dokja frowned, wiping his hands clean of glitter before opening it. His eyes moved over the page once, then again. His hands went still.
Joonghyuk crouched beside him, his shoulder brushing against Dokja’s. “What is it?”
“They’re… asking us to take in a child,” Dokja said slowly, eyes scanning the document again as though it might change. “An abandoned baby. Hybrid. They said she was left at one of the care centers last week. No known family. No other placements willing.”
Joonghyuk was quiet for a long moment. “Why us?”
“They said we’ve done well.” Dokja’s voice wavered, soft and unsure. “With Haneul and Eunbyeol. With the others, too.”
Joonghyuk leaned closer. “And what do you think?”
Dokja didn’t answer right away. He looked across the room where their daughters played, the warm smell of tea and fruit mixing with morning sun. He thought about the soft weight of a newborn in his arms, the nights spent humming lullabies, the fear, the love, the everything.
Then he looked at the final line of the letter again:
Name: Biyoo. Approximate age: 2 months. Features: albinic white hair, one yellow horn at center of forehead. Crying often. Eating little. Possible signs of trauma.
He swallowed. “I think she needs someone who won’t give up on her.”
Joonghyuk didn’t hesitate. “Then we’ll go get her.”
They brought Biyoo home two days later.
She was tiny. Smaller than either of the twins had been. Her white hair stuck out in tufts like down feathers, and the single golden horn in the center of her forehead made her look almost like a little unicorn. She didn’t cry when Dokja picked her up—just blinked, wide and tired, as though she’d already used up all the tears she had.
Eunbyeol and Haneul peeked over the edge of the crib with cautious curiosity.
“Is she our sister now?” Haneul asked.
Dokja crouched beside them, adjusting Biyoo’s blanket with gentle fingers. “Yes,” he said softly. “She’s our family now.”
“Does she know that?” Eunbyeol asked.
“Not yet,” Dokja murmured, stroking Biyoo’s hair. “But we’ll show her. We’ll make sure she never forgets.”
That night, Biyoo fussed for hours—her cries thin and exhausted, like a voice forgotten how to ask for help. Dokja stayed up with her while Joonghyuk soothed the twins back to sleep. He held Biyoo against his chest, whispering softly into her hair, humming old lullabies, trying every rhythm he remembered from when the twins were small.
Eventually, her sobs slowed. Her breathing evened out. She curled her fingers around his shirt and didn’t let go.
Joonghyuk returned to find them like that—Dokja slumped against the headboard, half-asleep, Biyoo nestled against him like a weight he hadn’t realized he’d needed.
Joonghyuk didn’t speak. He just sat down beside them and wrapped his arm around them both.
“She’s different,” Dokja whispered, eyes still closed.
“They all are,” Joonghyuk replied.
“But I think she’ll be okay.”
Joonghyuk nodded. “She has you.”
And in the hush that followed, with the house breathing slow around them, a new thread wove into the fabric of their family—fragile, golden, and steady as a heartbeat.