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It was supposed to be casual.
Minho reminded himself of that every time he kissed the corners of Seungmin’s mouth instead of just his lips. Every time he stayed a little too long after. Every time Seungmin fell asleep beside him and Minho didn’t move—just lay there, eyes tracing the quiet rise and fall of a chest that felt too familiar.
Seungmin reminded himself too. When he made coffee for two without thinking. When he reached for Minho’s shampoo instead of his own. When he hesitated before asking something personal, wondering if he had the right.
But feelings had a way of growing in the cracks left by silence.
They didn’t talk about it. They just kept coming back.
Again. And again.
Minho would show up with that look in his eyes—like he wanted to say something but didn’t trust himself. Seungmin would let him in, quietly hoping that maybe tonight might be different. It never was. It always ended in tangled sheets and the ache of something unsaid lingering in the dark.
One night, Minho whispered, “We should stop this.”
Seungmin stared at the ceiling. “Yeah.”
But neither of them moved.
They didn’t stop.
They couldn’t.
And when Seungmin found out he was pregnant 2 months ago, he panicked—not because he didn’t want the baby, but because it meant facing everything he’d been too scared to admit. The love he hadn’t meant to feel. The hopes he’d quietly built in the empty spaces Minho left behind.
So he didn’t tell him.
Instead, he did the only thing that felt safe: pulling away.
Missed calls. Unread messages. Excuses he couldn’t even say out loud. He couldn’t bear to see Minho’s face if it twisted into disappointment—or worse, pity.
He wasn’t going to trap him.
He loved Minho too much for that.
But Minho had waited. For days. For weeks. Every day, he checks his phone, hoping for a message, something. Every day, he watches Seungmin’s social media, silently wishing for a sign that he’s okay. He asks their friends—carefully, quietly—but they all were of no help too.
There was nothing. Silence. The silence gnawed at him, leaving an aching hole where there should have been laughter, words, and maybe even the comfort of Seungmin’s steady presence.
At first, he told himself that maybe Seungmin just needed space—that maybe this was normal for him. But as the days dragged on, the uncertainty wore him down. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand this. So, he did what he did best when he was tired of waiting—he acted.
Minho didn’t want to admit it, but part of him had hoped that Seungmin would reach out, that the silence was just a phase. But as the weeks passed and nothing changed, the pain was becoming unbearable. What was he supposed to do? Wait forever? He couldn’t.
He found himself standing in front of Seungmin’s door, fists clenched at his sides, heart racing in a mix of anger and worry. There had to be a reason for this. He couldn’t just let this go on.
He knocked—hard. No response. He knocked again, louder this time. The only sound in the hallway was the heavy thrum of his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears. When the door finally opened, Seungmin’s face was a ghost of the person Minho had known. His eyes avoided Minho’s, his shoulders slumped as though he was carrying a weight no one could see.
“Seungmin,” Minho’s voice was rough, tight with a frustration he couldn’t hide. “Why have you been ignoring me?”
Seungmin didn’t answer right away. His eyes flickered briefly to Minho’s, but he quickly looked away, as if avoiding the confrontation. Seungmin’s throat burned, and his mind raced, too fast to catch anything. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Too many words jammed up behind his ribs. What could he even say to explain?
Minho’s heart sank. This wasn’t the Seungmin he knew. This wasn’t the confident, sharp-witted guy he’d been everything with.
“I…” Seungmin trailed off, his voice barely above a whisper. “I didn’t know how to tell you.” He looked like he might crumble under the weight of his own words. He stepped aside, letting Minho in without another word.
Minho’s anger simmered, but there was something else there now. Something colder. “Tell me what, Seungmin?” His throat tightened as the uncertainty built up again.
Seungmin stood still, trembling slightly. He met Minho’s gaze for just a second before looking down at the floor. “I’m pregnant.” The words fell from his lips as if they were too heavy to carry, and the air in the room seemed to thicken with the weight of them.
For a moment, Minho just stared at him. His brain couldn’t process it—couldn’t connect the words to the person standing in front of him. Pregnant? How could he not have known?
“Seungmin,” he said softly, like saying his name might steady the world. But Seungmin only flinched, eyes wide and wet, retreating further into himself like he expected to be yelled at or—worse—left behind.
“I—” He choked, voice breaking. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear, I was careful— I didn’t tell you because—because I didn’t want you to think I was trying to trap you or something—”
Minho’s face crumpled. “Trapped? What? You think I’d leave you because of a baby? You think I wouldn’t—”
“I thought you’d feel obligated,” Seungmin blurted out, his words tumbling over each other in his rush to explain. “Like you’d stay out of some sense of duty. That I—that I trapped you in this. I’m not ready for this either, but I can’t— I can’t put all that on you. I—”
“Seungmin.”
“I thought you’d feel stuck. Or you’d be mad. I thought you’d hate me, or feel like you had to stay—”
At that, Minho stepped forward, then halted, eyes wide with disbelief. “Seungmin, stop. I’m not mad about the baby. I’m not mad about anything. I can never, never hate you.”
“But the baby—” Seungmin started, panic rising.
“That’s my baby.” Minho’s voice was quiet but firm, each word cutting through the whirlwind of Seungmin’s thoughts.
Seungmin flinched, unable to believe what he was hearing. “What?”
Minho closed the distance between them, his breath shaky. He gently cupped Seungmin’s face in his hands, tilting his chin up, forcing their eyes to meet “That’s my baby,” Minho repeated, his voice more steady now, like he was trying to make Seungmin hear it clearly. “Ours. And you’re not alone. Not now. Not ever. I’m not running from this.”
Seungmin shook his head, the tears blurring his vision again. He wanted to protest, to keep the walls up, to protect Minho from what he was sure would break them, but the fear was too heavy, and his heart too weak to carry it alone.
“I’m so scared, Minho,” he whispered. “I’m scared of… everything. Of making you stay when you don’t want to. Of ruining everything. Of—of being too much. Scared of this…” His voice trembled as his fingers curled tightly into Minho’s shirt, clinging like he was afraid Minho might vanish if he let go. Then, his other hand moved instinctively to his stomach, as if trying to shield the truth that had been sitting there all along.
Minho didn’t hesitate this time. He stepped in closer—closer than he could ever be—pulling Seungmin against him with no space left between them. His arms wrapped around him with an unspoken promise, steady and warm.
“I’ll be scared with you, okay? We’ll figure this out. Together.”
Seungmin let out a shaky breath, burying his face in Minho’s chest. And for the first time in weeks, something inside him loosened—just enough to let go of the fear. Just enough to let love in.
But as Minho held him, something shifted. It wasn’t the baby alone that had brought them here. It was the moments between them, the ones they hadn’t said out loud. The soft gestures. The mornings when Seungmin had slipped out of bed, only to find Minho quietly reaching for his shirt, knowing Seungmin would need it. The way Minho’s eyes softened when Seungmin laughed at something stupid. Those weren’t signs of a fling. Those were signs of something real.
The baby wasn’t the cause. It was the mirror—reflecting everything they’d tried to ignore. The love they had been too scared to name.
And as Seungmin held on to Minho, the weight of that truth felt a little lighter. Because maybe love didn’t need to start with a confession. Maybe it started somewhere quieter—between unsaid words, in lingering touches, in the way they always came back.
And maybe the baby wasn’t the start of something new.
Maybe it was just proof of what had already begun.