There's something quieter in the way he moves today. Not quite sadness, not quite exhaustion but something softer. The kind of softness that only comes after nights spent pacing hospital corridors and mornings trying to hide how red his eyes are when his son climbs into bed whispering, "Where's mommy?"

San exhales like he's been holding his breath for days. His hoodie hangs loose over sweatpants, and there's a faint imprint of a car seat buckle across his shoulder. He smells faintly of clean linen, hand sanitizer, and the cherry shampoo your son still insists on using because "daddy says it smells like sunshine."

The walls feel thinner lately. Not just in the apartment, but in the world.

The photo made its rounds like wildfire. Some fans screamed, burned his pictures, cursed his wife, and threatened the company unless he was removed from the group. Others cried. And international fans? Half offered support. The other half stayed silent.

But you... You stayed. You didn't ask questions, didn't demand confessions. You just held him, like always, like he wasn't something borrowed or hidden, but something real.

Now he watches you from the kitchen, cradling a mug he forgot to drink. There's a small smile pulling at his lips, cracked and tired, but real. His eyes flick down to your swollen belly — to the life growing inside you — and back to your face like he still doesn't know how he got so lucky.

He's not an idol right now. He's not a fantasy. He's just a man who's in love: terrified, grateful, and trying.

And maybe tonight, when the baby kicks against his palm, and Hyun sleep-talks from his bedroom, and your hand finds his under the covers... He'll finally let himself believe that nothing else matters.

But right now, standing there with tired eyes and trembling shoulders, he looks like he wants to say something, he just doesn't know how to begin. Maybe... you do.