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The nausea begins in May.
Taeyong wakes at 4 a.m, stomach churning like he’s on a boat. He barely makes it to the bathroom before he’s heaving over the toilet, mostly bile from the spicy ramyeon they ate at 2 a.m while binge-watching a drama.
Doyoung appears in the doorway, sleep-rumpled hair sticking up, his voice thick. “Again?”
Taeyong wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, flushed and embarrassed. “It’s nothing. Just bad food.”
Doyoung kneels beside him anyway, rubs slow circles on his back. “You’ve said that three mornings in a row.”
“I’m fine.” Taeyong leans into the touch despite himself. “Just…go back to bed. You have early office hours.”
Doyoung doesn't buy it. His nose twitches, scenting the air. "Your scent's off. Not like you."
Taeyong tenses. "Don't start."
"I'm not accusing." Doyoung helps him stand, steady hands on his waist. "Just worried. You skipped your last heat suppressants. We both did."
"It was one heat." Taeyong's cheeks burn. "We were careful."
Doyoung's thumb brushes his hip bone. "We knotted. A lot."
Taeyong ducks his head. "I know."
They don't talk about it more that night. Doyoung just tucks Taeyong back into bed, curls around him protectively, his nose buried in Taeyong's neck to scent-mark him until the bitter edge fades.
Taeyong falls asleep with Doyoung’s hand still on his stomach, warm and steady.
It keeps happening.
Not every day, but enough that Taeyong starts avoiding certain smells, coffee, Doyoung’s aftershave, even the laundry detergent. He’s tired constantly, falling asleep on the couch mid-sentence while Doyoung grades papers beside him.
One evening in early June, Taeyong snaps.
He’s trying to sketch a new jacket design, pencil shaking in his hand, and the lines won’t come right. He throws the sketchbook across the room; it hits the wall with a soft thud.
Doyoung looks up from his laptop. “Hey.”
“Don’t ‘hey’ me.” Taeyong’s voice cracks. “Everything feels wrong. I can’t focus, I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. I look like shit, I feel like shit, and you just sit there looking perfect like nothing is happening.”
Doyoung closes the laptop slowly. “I don’t feel perfect. I’m worried about you.”
Taeyong laughs, bitter. “Worried. Great. That helps.”
He storms to the bedroom, slams the door and curls under the covers. Ten minutes later Doyoung slips in quietly, doesn’t say anything, just lies behind him and wraps an arm around his waist.
“I’m sorry,” Taeyong whispers after a long silence.
“Me too.” Doyoung presses his lips to the back of Taeyong’s neck.
Taeyong tenses. “What if-”
“Then we face it.” Doyoung’s voice is calm, but Taeyong can feel the slight tremor in his hold. “Together like mates.”
Taeyong doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t pull away either.
Taeyong finds out on a Tuesday.
The stick sits on the edge of the sink like it’s judging him. Two bold pink lines. He’s been staring so long his reflection has started to look like someone else.
He doesn’t cry. Not yet.
Instead he wraps the test in toilet paper, tucks it into the pocket of his hoodie, and walks out to the living room where Doyoung is cross-legged on the couch, glasses sliding down his nose while he grades midterms.
“Doyoungie.”
Doyoung glances up, immediately clocking something’s wrong. “What happened?”
Taeyong doesn’t answer with words. He just pulls the little bundle out and drops it into Doyoung’s open palm.
He unwraps it slowly, like he’s defusing something. When he sees the lines his breath catches.
“...Oh.”
Taeyong’s voice is very small. “I’m sorry.”
Doyoung blinks, then he sets the test carefully on the coffee table, stands, and pulls Taeyong into his arms so fast Taeyong stumbles.
“Don’t,” Doyoung murmurs against his temple. “Don’t apologize. Not for this.”
Taeyong fists the back of Doyoung’s sweater. “We said we’d wait. Until the apartment was bigger. Until I finished the spring collection. Until-”
“Plans change.” Doyoung kisses his hair. “We’ll figure it out. Together. Like always.”
Taeyong hides his face in the crook of Doyoung’s neck and finally lets the first sob escape.
---
They don’t plan it. Not consciously.
It’s one of those humid nights where the air-con is fighting a losing battle and every window is open. Taeyong is wearing nothing but Doyoung’s old university t-shirt. Doyoung comes home late from a faculty dinner smelling faintly of soju and cologne.
He doesn’t even make it past the entryway.
Taeyong meets him at the door barefoot. “I missed you.”
Doyoung kicks his shoes off, crowds Taeyong against the wall, their mouths crashing together. His hands roam under the t-shirt, finding Taeyong's skin still shower-damp. Taeyong moans when Doyoung thumbs over a nipple, already pebbled from the cool air.
“Bed,” Doyoung rasps. “Now.”
They don’t make it to the bed.
Halfway down the hall Taeyong drops to his knees, tugging at Doyoung’s belt with impatient fingers. Doyoung groans when Taeyong takes him into his mouth.
“Baby…fuck, slow down or I won’t last.”
Taeyong pulls off with a wet pop. “I don’t care. I want you inside.”
Doyoung hauls him up, carries him the last few steps and drops him onto the mattress. Taeyong spreads his legs immediately already slick between his thighs.
Doyoung strips fast, climbs over him, kisses him deep while he notches himself at Taeyong’s entrance. No condom. They’d both forgotten in the heat of it or maybe hadn’t wanted to remember.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” Doyoung breathes.
Taeyong hooks ankles around his waist. “Give me everything.”
Doyoung pushes in slow, savoring every inch. Taeyong arches, nails digging into shoulders until Doyoung bottoms out and they both still, breathing hard.
Then Doyoung starts moving.
The headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall. Taeyong cries out every time Doyoung hits that spot, his thighs trembling. Sweat slicks their skin, their bellies sliding together.
“Gonna fill you up,” Doyoung growls against his ear. “Gonna keep you full of me.”
Taeyong clenches hard at the words, keening. “Yes-please breed me, Doyoungie”
Doyoung swears, pace faltering. He hooks Taeyong’s legs over his elbows, folds him in half and drives deeper. Taeyong comes untouched, sobbing through it, his walls pulsing. Doyoung follows seconds later, grinding in as far as he can, spilling hot and thick inside.
They stay locked together for long minutes, panting and kissing. Doyoung’s hand drifts to Taeyong’s lower stomach, thumb stroking the soft skin there.
Neither of them thinks about consequences.
---
The technician is kind, pretends not to notice Taeyong’s death grip on Doyoung’s hand.
The wand glides over gel-slick skin. A grainy image blooms on the screen, a tiny, pulsing shape.
“There’s the heartbeat,” she says softly.
Taeyong makes a broken sound. Doyoung’s eyes are shiny.
“Everything looks perfect so far.”the tech adds.
Doyoung leans down, presses his lips to Taeyong’s temple. “Hear that? That’s ours.”
Taeyong nods, tears slipping sideways into his hair. “Ours.”
---
Taeyong stands in front of the full-length mirror in only underwear, hands cradling the gentle swell, the pregnancy shows early.
Doyoung comes up behind him, slides both arms around Taeyong’s waist, palms covering the bump protectively.
“Do you think I look weird?” Taeyong asks quietly.
Doyoung kisses the nape of his neck. “You look like you’re carrying our baby. Nothing weird about that.”
Taeyong leans back into him. “I’m scared I won’t be good at this.”
“You already are.” Doyoung turns him around, cups his face. “You’re growing a whole person. You’re beautiful. You’re brave. And you’re going to be the best dad.”
Taeyong’s lip trembles. “Promise you’ll still want me when I’m huge and can’t see my feet?”
Doyoung smiles. “Promise I’ll want you more.”
The first trimester is hell.
Taeyong loses weight at first, then gains it in weird places, his face rounds slightly, his chest feels tender and swollen.
Taeyong’s throat tightens. “I’m scared I’ll ruin this. Ruin us.”
Doyoung turns him around. “You won’t. We won’t ruin anything.”
Taeyong searches his face. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
They kiss slowly, deeply. Doyoung’s hands stay gentle, Taeyong pulls him toward the bed.
They make love carefully, Taeyong rides him, controlling the pace. Doyoung watches him with awe, hands on his hips, whispering how much he loves him, how perfect he feels. Taeyong comes with a quiet sob, clinging, and Doyoung follows, burying his face in Taeyong’s neck.
After, they lie tangled, Doyoung’s fingers tracing the faint line of Taeyong’s changing body.
“I’m still scared,” Taeyong admits.
“Me too,” Doyoung says. “But I’m here.”
Second trimester brings relief and new fears.
The nausea fades. Taeyong starts nesting.
At the 20-week ultrasound, the tech points out tiny fingers, a spine, a fluttering heartbeat.
Taeyong grips Doyoung’s hand so hard it hurts.
“That’s her,” the tech says. “Or him. Too early to tell for sure.”
“Her,” Taeyong whispers, instinctive.
Doyoung’s eyes don’t leave the screen. “Our daughter.”
They leave the clinic dazed, stop at a café, sit in silence until Taeyong starts crying quietly into his decaf.
Doyoung pulls him close. “Talk to me.”
“I want this so much it hurts,” Taeyong says. “But what if I’m not enough? What if I can’t handle it?”
“You already are.” Doyoung kisses his temple. “You’re growing her and I’m not going anywhere.”
Taeyong nods against his shoulder. “I love you.”
“I love you more.”
One night Taeyong’s restless, he guides Doyoung’s hand between his legs, already wet.
“Please,” he breathes.
Doyoung kisses down his body, careful around the swell. He uses his mouth first until Taeyong’s trembling. Then he slides in gently from behind, spooning, one arm under Taeyong’s head, the other cradling the bump.
Taeyong gasps at every deep thrust, clenches when Doyoung murmurs how full he feels, how good Taeyong takes him, how he’s going to keep him like this forever.
They come together, quiet and shuddering.
After, Doyoung doesn’t pull out right away. He stays inside, soft, holding Taeyong close.
Taeyong can’t sleep. The baby’s active tonight, sharp kicks under his ribs.
Doyoung wakes instantly when Taeyong shifts. “Again?”
“Mhm.”
Doyoung sits up, pulls Taeyong between his thighs so the man can lean back against his chest. He rests both hands on the swell, stroking in slow circles.
The kicks slow under his touch, as if the baby recognizes him.
Taeyong sighs. “Magic hands.”
“Only for you two.” Doyoung kisses his shoulder. “Want me to help you relax?”
Taeyong turns his head. “Please.”
Doyoung’s touch drifts lower, he slips a hand beneath the waistband of Taeyong’s sleep shorts, finds him already half-hard.
Taeyong moans softly, hips rocking. “Feels good...”
Doyoung works him patiently, whispering against his ear. “Love how sensitive you are now. I love how your body responds to me.”
Taeyong comes shuddering in Doyoung’s arms.
After, Doyoung cleans him up with a warm cloth, then spoons him from behind, one hand protectively over the bump.
“Sleep now,” he murmurs.
Taeyong drifts off to the feeling of Doyoung’s steady heartbeat against his back and the faint flutter of their child between them.
They’re curled on the couch watching some cooking show neither of them is really paying attention to. Taeyong’s head is in Doyoung’s lap; Doyoung’s fingers card through his hair.
“I think I’m ready,” Taeyong says suddenly.
Doyoung stills. “For labor?”
“For everything.” Taeyong looks up at him, eyes shining.
Doyoung leans down, kisses him slow and deep.
“Then we’ll be ready together.”
Their daughter arrives at 4:17 a.m. after a long, exhausting labor.
She has Taeyong’s eyes and Doyoung’s lips.
When the nurse places her on Taeyong’s chest, skin-to-skin, he starts crying again.
Doyoung kisses his sweaty forehead, then the baby’s tiny head.
“Hi, little moon,” Taeyong whispers. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
Doyoung’s voice cracks when he speaks. “We love you so much already.”
Taeyong looks up at him through damp lashes. “We did good, didn’t we?”
Doyoung smiles, thumb brushing away a tear. “We did perfect.”
And in that small hospital room, with dawn just starting to color the sky, their little family begins.