Chapter Text
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PJM
The calendar on the fridge says I’m exactly thirty-nine weeks and four days, which in pregnancy terms translates to “any second now, buckle up.” My belly is enormous, like I have swallowed a perfectly round beach ball that has decided to take permanent residence. The skin is stretched so tight it sometimes gleams under the lights, faint silver stretch marks shimmering like little lightning bolts across the dome.
Every breath feels like a mini workout now, my lungs squished up under my ribs, and our daughter has apparently inherited her Appa’s restless energy after too much coffee, with practicing full somersaults, karate kicks, and what feels suspiciously like river-dance routines at 3 a.m..
Yoongi’s mother, or Mom, as she insisted the very first day five years ago, as she pulled me into a bone-crushing hug and declared, “None of that ‘Mrs. Min’ nonsense, you’re my son now”, arrived two days ago with two full suitcases, a cooler packed with homemade banchan, and zero intention of leaving until our pup is safely in my arms. She took one look at Bora’s excited face and announced that someone needed to be here for our nine-year-old when labor hits, because a child cannot exactly tag along to the delivery room or stay home alone for however many hours this might take. Bora has been glued to her side ever since, learning how to fold perfect kimchi pancakes, begging for stories about “when Appa was little and had the chubby-cheeked phase,” and practicing her “big sister” voice on every stuffed animal in the house.
I love Yoongi's mom with my whole heart. She is the mother-in-law every Omega dreams of, warm, fierce, zero judgment, and treats me like I personally hung the moon and stars. She still tears up when I call her “Mom” sometimes, and pinches my cheeks like I’m the nine-year-old. She has already knitted three blankets, two bonnets, and a tiny cardigan the color of my previous pink hair.
Right now we are all crammed in the kitchen, sunlight pouring through the massive windows, the penthouse smelling like garlic, sesame oil, and pure love. Yoongi's mom is at the stove stirring doenjang jjigae with the concentration of a Michelin chef, Bora is perched on her step-stool “helping” by washing cherry tomatoes with intense concentration, and Yoongi is chopping vegetables with one hand while the other keeps drifting to my belly every time he passes behind me. His palm slides over the taut skin like he is checking that our daughter is still there, still real, still kicking.
I lean into every single touch, my Omega purring like a smug, overfed cat.
“Jiminie, sit down,” she scolds for the tenth time today, waving a wooden spoon at me like a conductor’s baton. “You are waddling like a very pregnant, very adorable penguin. Let this old lady handle lunch.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” I laugh, rubbing the aching small of my back where the weight of my bump pulls constantly. “The doctor said light movement is good. Besides, if I sit down, I will never get up again. Gravity and I are not friends right now.”
Yoongi pauses mid-chop, a cucumber slice forgotten in his fingers. His eyes flick to me, worry etched deep between his brows.
“Baby, you have been having those practice contractions all week. Let me finish this.”
“I’m literally just stirring rice, Yoongi.”
I roll my eyes, but my heart flips at the raw concern in his voice. Yoongi has been a nervous wreck since the Braxton Hicks started, he is timing them on his phone meticulously, but also always rubbing my back in slow circles, or fetching some water. I have even caught him googling “how to tell real labor from false labor” at 2 a.m.. His Alpha is in full overdrive, scent spiking with protective anxiety every time I so much as sigh.
Bora spins on her stool, tomato water dripping from her little fingers like ruby beads.
“Amma, when is my sister coming? Grandma said maybe today!”
Mom and Yoongi both freeze mid-motion. I laugh softly, reaching over to ruffle Bora’s curls.
“We don’t know yet, puppy. Soon. Very soon.”
Another contraction chooses that exact moment to roll through me, a little sharper than any other this week, a tight, hot band squeezing from my spine around to my front like a fist closing. I hiss through my teeth, gripping the counter edge hard enough to turn my knuckles white, as my breath catches in my throat.
The pain lingers, deep and radiating down my thighs, making my knees wobble.
Yoongi drops the knife with a clatter that echoes like a gunshot. He is at my side in a heartbeat, his hands hovering like he is afraid to touch me and make it worse.
“Jimin? Breathe, baby, in through the nose, out through the mouth, like we practiced—”
His mom is already pushing a chair toward me with her hip, wooden spoon still in hand.
“Sit, sit, sit! That looked like a real one, not those fake ones you have been teasing us with.”
“I’m okay,” I pant, waving them off, but the ache doesn’t fade as fast as the others.
It sits low and heavy, a promise rather than a warning.
“Just another practice... ow... damn it.”
Bora scrambles down from her stool and barrels into me, arms flung around my hips, or rather, around the massive bump that now takes up most of my front. Her cheek presses right against where her sister’s head is nestled low, and she squeezes tight with all her nine-year-old strength.
“It’s okay, Amma! I’m hugging the hurt away! Baby sister, be nice to Amma!”
The pressure of her hug is sweet and fierce, until a sudden, warm gush floods down my legs, soaking my soft gray sweatpants in seconds. My water breaks with an audible splash onto the pristine kitchen tiles, the sound shockingly loud in the sudden silence.
For one stunned heartbeat, the room is completely still.
Then everything explodes into motion.
Bora squeaks, jumping back, eyes wide as saucers.
“Did I squish too hard? Did I break her, Amma?!”
Yoongi’s face goes white as paper, mouth open, no sound coming out. His pupils are blown wide, his Alpha's instincts short-circuiting into pure panic.
His mom gasps, her hand flying to her chest, wooden spoon clattering to the floor.
“Oh! Oh my goodness, his water broke! It’s time!”
I stare down at the puddle spreading between my bare feet, brain short-circuiting. The liquid is clear, tinged faintly pink, and warm against my skin.
“That… was not a Braxton Hicks.”
Bora’s lower lip wobbles, fat tears instant.
“I hurt you! I hurt my sister!”
“No, no, puppy—”
I crouch as fast as my whale-body allows, knees protesting, and cup her tear-streaked face in both hands.
“You didn’t hurt anyone, sweetheart. This is normal! It just means your sister is ready to meet us now. You did perfect, your hug was exactly what she needed to know it’s time.”
She sniffles, nodding, but still looks terrified, her bottom lip trembling. Yoongi is still frozen, staring at the puddle like it is a ticking bomb.
His mom is already moving like a general, she is grabbing towels from the drawer, and barking orders.
“Yoongi! Snap out of it! Get the hospital bag! Bora, sweetheart, come help Grandma clean up, everything is fine! ”
Yoongi doesn’t move. Two full minutes of pure deer-in-headlights, his Alpha completely checked out.
I waddle over, water still trickling down my legs, and touch his cheek gently.
“Yoongi,” I say softly, voice steady despite the next contraction already building low in my back. “Breathe with me, love. In… out... Good. Mom, can you clean up and calm Bora? I need to change and drag my mate back to planet Earth.”
She nods instantly, already on her knees with towels.
“Go, go! I’ve got this.”
I take Yoongi’s trembling hand and lead him to our bedroom. The hospital bag has been packed for weeks, and repacked obsessively, sits right by the door. I close it behind us, lean against the wood, and pull him into a hug, nuzzling his neck, releasing calm milky pheromones to soothe his spiking anxiety.
“Hey,” I whisper, cupping his face. “Look at me.”
His eyes are wild, mint scent sharp with fear.
“Your water, fuck, Jimin, it’s happening. I... I can’t—”
“You can,” I say firmly, thumbs stroking his cheekbones. “You are the strongest Alpha I know. Our daughter is coming, and I need my mate. Can you be my mate right now?”
He exhales shakily, nodding, some focus returning to his eyes.
“Yeah. Yeah, baby. I’m here.”
“Good.”
I step back, peeling off my soaked sweatpants and underwear, grimacing at the sticky mess.
“Now help me. I can’t reach my feet anymore.”
That snaps him into action like a switch flipped. He kneels immediately, gentle hands sliding soft maternity leggings up my legs, careful around the bump, then thick socks over my swollen feet, kissing each ankle like I’m made of glass. His touch is reverent, and grounding us both.
“Phone?” I ask, voice already breathy as another contraction coils low.
“Pocket,” he mutters, pulling it out, thumbs flying.
He is calling the hospital to confirm that the OB is on call. His voice is steady now.
Just as I’m about to stand, another contraction hits, real and deep, radiating from my back around to my front like a steel band. I grip Yoongi’s hand hard enough to leave crescent marks, breathing through it in short, sharp bursts. When it passes, sweat beads on my forehead, but I manage a shaky smile.
“Okay. That one was four minutes apart. We gotta move.”
We are back in the kitchen in seconds. Mom has the floor sparkling again, and Bora bouncing on her toes, eyes shining with excitement now instead of fear.
“Amma! Next time I see you, I will have a sister!” she squeals, throwing herself at my legs again, this time more gently, hands splayed over my bump.
“I love you! Tell baby sister I love her too!”
I bend awkwardly, kissing her curls, her cheeks, her forehead.
“Be good for Grandma, okay? We will call as soon as she is here. FaceTime the second she is in my arms.”
Yoongi kneels too, hugging her tight, voice thick.
“Love you, puppy. Take care of Grandma. And be brave.”
Mom pulls Yoongi into a fierce hug, whispering rapid instructions of driving safe, to hold my hand, and to not faint. She makes him promise to call the second she is born. Then she turns to me, cupping my face, eyes wet but fierce.
“My brave boy,” she says, voice cracking. “Fast and easy delivery, hm? I will be praying every second.”
Another contraction hits, stronger this time, stealing my breath as it grips me. I clutch her shoulders, fighting to stay centered, my body instinctively tensing. Yoongi’s hand is at my lower back in an instant, rubbing firm, steady circles that help anchor me in the chaos. His scent wraps around me like armor, a grounding presence in the storm of pain.
I focus on the feel of him, the rhythm of his touch, breathing through it, willing the contraction to pass. When it finally ebbs, there is no time to linger. We are moving, the urgency of the moment settling in. Bora blows kisses from the doorway, her eyes wide but full happiness.
The elevator ride is a still, tense silence, save for the quiet rhythm of my measured breathing and Yoongi’s white-knuckled grip on the railing beside me. His jaw is tight, his shoulders stiff with the weight of everything happening around us, but he doesn’t let go of me, not for a second. My heart beats in time with the elevator’s slow descent, each second feeling like a lifetime, each breath more precious than the last.
In the car, I update the contraction timer app from the start of the first contraction in the kitchen, first seven minutes, then six minutes, then five and a half, now four.
Yoongi’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel, but his voice is calm when he speaks.
“You are doing amazing, Jiminie. We are almost there.”
I open the group chat with our friends, typing with shaking fingers.
Jimin
Water broke!! Heading to hospital now!!
Baby girl incoming!! 💕💕💕
The replies flood instantly.
Jin
FINALLY!!! Updates mandatory every 10 minutes or I'm coming!!
Namjoon
Breathe, Jiminie!! You have got this!! Sending all the strength!!
Hoseok
GOOD VIBES INCOMING!!! YOU ARE A CHAMP!!
Tae
AHHHHH MY NIECE!!! I’M CRYING!!
Jungkook
HYUNG DON’T FORGET THE PLAYLIST I MADE FOR THE DELIVERY ROOM
I laugh through the next contraction just as we pull into the hospital driveway, sharp enough that I cry out, gripping the dashboard, nails digging into the leather. Yoongi parks crookedly at the emergency entrance, jumps out, and is at my door in seconds, one arm around my waist, the other wheeling the hospital bag like a man on a mission.
Nurses are already waiting with a wheelchair. I sink into it gratefully, the relief instant on my back and hips. Yoongi’s hand never leaves mine, his thumb stroking my knuckles in frantic little circles.
The automatic doors slide open, cool hospital air washing over us, sharp with antiseptic and hope. Another contraction builds low and fierce as they wheel me inside, and I squeeze his fingers so hard I’m scared I will break them.
We are here.
Our daughter is coming any moment now.
The wheelchair rolls me through the maternity ward faster than I expect, fluorescent lights blurring overhead, Yoongi’s hand a vice around mine. Every bump in the linoleum sends a jolt through my hips, and another contraction is already building, fiercer and lower, like a freight train barreling down my spine. I grit my teeth, breathing in sharp bursts through my nose, out through pursed lips, exactly like the classes drilled into us. Yoongi’s scent is everywhere spiked with adrenaline, wrapping around me, anchoring me even as panic flickers in his eyes.
“Almost there, baby,” he murmurs, voice trembling but steady for my sake. “You are doing so good, Jimin. So fucking good.”
━━━━
A little while later the delivery room doors swing open and the nurses move like choreography they have done a thousand times. They have the monitors already beeping, the IV line started, and a fetal heart-rate strap around my belly instantly. They swap warm blankets for the soaked ones clinging to my thighs. The OB, a calm Beta doctor with kind eyes and quick hands, greets us with a smile that instantly calms the chaos.
“Welcome back, Jimin-ssi. Looks like baby girl decided today is the day. Let’s see how far along we are.”
She checks me efficiently, gloved fingers gentle but sure, and her eyebrows lift.
“Seven centimeters already, ninety percent effaced. This little one is in a hurry. Second babies don’t mess around.”
Two hours.
That is all it has been since my water broke in the kitchen, less time than it took Bora to make her entrance nine years ago. My body remembers the drill, apparently, and has decided to skip the warm-up round entirely.
Yoongi’s face is a mix of awe and terror.
“We just got here.” he repeats, voice cracking.
The doctor chuckles.
“Some second labors are like this, fast and furious. Jimin-ssi, you are doing beautifully. Next contraction, I want you to bear down a little, okay? Let’s see if we can get you to ten.”
I nod, sweat already beading along my hairline, hair sticking to my forehead. Yoongi wipes them away with the sleeve of his hoodie, then presses a cool cloth to my neck. His other hand never leaves mine.
The next contraction hits like a tidal wave, rolling from my back around to my front, pressure so intense my vision tunnels. I groan low, gripping Yoongi’s fingers hard enough that I feel bones shift.
“That’s it,” the doctor coaches, voice steady. “Ride the peak, Jimin-ssi. Breathe with me, heee, hooo, heee, hooo—”
I follow her rhythm, but the urge to push is already clawing at me, primal and unstoppable. My body knows what to do even if my brain is screaming too fast, too soon.
“The pressure is building,” I gasp, legs shaking in the stirrups. “I... I have the urge to push. I need to push.”
“Perfect,” the doctor says, snapping on fresh gloves. “Next one, give me everything you’ve got.”
Yoongi leans close, forehead pressed to my temple, scent flooding my senses.
“I’m right here, baby. You are the strongest person I know. Our girl is almost here.”
The contraction crests again, and I bear down with a guttural cry that rips from my chest. Fire blooms between my legs, stretching, burning, but beneath it is the most incredible pressure, like my body is splitting open to let the universe in.
Yoongi’s grip tightens, his breath hitching as he watches.
“Crown!” the doctor announces triumphantly. “I see dark hair, lots of it. One more big push, Jimin-ssi, and we will have her shoulders.”
I’m sobbing now, not from fear but from the sheer overwhelming power of it, my body doing something ancient and miraculous. Yoongi’s tears drip onto my shoulder, hot and salty.
“I love you,” he whispers, voice breaking. “So fucking much.”
Another contraction, another roar from my throat, and suddenly the pressure releases in a rush of fluid and relief. Our daughter slides into the world with a thin, furious cry that pierces straight through my heart.
Time stops.
The room narrows to that sound of tiny lungs, perfect pitch, pure life.
“Time of birth, 15:47,” a nurse calls, and Yoongi lets out a broken laugh-sob.
The doctor lifts her, all slippery and red, her tiny fists waving, and places her on my chest. Instantly, the pain fades to background noise. She is warm, impossibly soft, smelling like heaven and amniotic fluid and us. Her little mouth roots against my skin, dark hair plastered to her head, her eyelashes already long and thick.
Yoongi’s hands hover, trembling, until the nurse guides him.
“Appa, whenever you are ready, the cord is right here.”
He takes the scissors with shaking fingers, cuts, and the cord pulses once more before stilling. Our daughter is free, separate, hers.
A nurse comes to take her, wrapping her in a warm blanket and gently rubbing her dry. She wails the whole time, small fists flailing, indignation written all over her tiny face, until the moment the nurse hands her into Yoongi’s arms.
The change is instantaneous. Her cries quiet almost immediately, and her little face scrunches up as he nuzzles her, his scent surrounding her like a lullaby. She melts into him, tiny body relaxing completely, as if she has always known exactly where she belongs.
“Hi, Nabi,” he whispers, voice raw. “Min Nabi. Our little butterfly. You are finally here.”
The name slips out like it was always waiting. We had whispered it in the dark weeks ago, half-joking, but now it fits her perfectly, delicate wings still folded, but ready to open.
Yoongi brings her to me, eyes glistening, and settles on the bed beside me. I’m shaking with exhaustion, every muscle trembling, but the second her weight settles against my chest again, everything quiets. Her tiny fist uncurls against my skin, fingers splayed over my heart.
I study her closely, drinking in every tiny detail. Her perfect rosebud mouth, Yoongi’s nose, my lips, there is even a delicate dimple in her left cheek. Tears spill freely down my face, unchecked, each one a mix of awe, love, and wonder.
“She is perfect,” I sob, laughing through it. “Yoongi, look what we made.”
He wraps his arms around us both, careful of cords and monitors, burying his face in my neck.
“You did it, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You were incredible. I’m so proud of you. I love you, so damn much.”
I turn my head, find his lips, and kiss him slow and deep, tasting salt and joy and relief. Nabi squirms between us, letting out a soft grunt of protest, and we break apart laughing.
A nurse approaches gently.
“We need to do her checks, and weight her, just the usual. Appa, want to come with?”
Yoongi nods, pressing one last kiss to my forehead.
“Rest, Jiminie. I’ve got her.”
I watch them go, my Alpha carrying our daughter like she is made of starlight, and the exhaustion crashes over me like a wave. My eyes flutter shut, the world narrowing to the soft beeping of monitors and the lingering scent of mint, milk, and new life.
I’m out for maybe ten minutes, long enough for them to weigh her, clean her properly, and swaddle her in the tiniest hat, when Yoongi’s voice pulls me back.
“Jiminie,” he whispers, settling beside me again. “Open your eyes, love. Someone wants her Amma.”
I blink awake, and there she is, fresh, pink, and with her eyes cracked open for the very first time. Storm-gray, just like Yoongi’s had been when he was born. His mother had told me about it before, and now I see it for myself. She gazes up at me, solemn and almost impossibly wise, and my heart splinters, breaking wide open all at once.
“Hi, Nabi,” I breathe, cradling her close. “I’m your Amma. Welcome to the world, butterfly.”
Yoongi’s arm slides behind my shoulders, pulling us into the cocoon of his body. His phone is already out, thumbs flying.
Yoongi
Min Nabi born 15:47 💕 3.4kg, 51cm. Perfect.
Jimin was a goddamn superhero. We will FaceTime soon.
He sends to message to our group chat and the replies explode instantly, crying emojis, hearts, and Jin already demanding photos, as Taehyung sends voice notes of happy screams.
Yoongi calls his mom a moment later, and puts it on speaker.
“Yoongi?” Mom’s voice wavers. “Is she—?”
“She’s here, Mom,” he says, voice cracking again. “We named her Nabi. She is… she is so beautiful, Mom.”
A sob on the other end, then Bora’s excited shriek in the background.
“Grandma, me too! Amma! Appa! When can I see my baby sister?”
We laugh through tears as the nurse returns to finish my postpartum checks, a fundal massage (which hurts more than I thought it would), stitching up a small tear, ice packs, and the whole routine. It is a bit of a blur, but I’m too blissed-out to care. The pain feels distant, like it belongs to someone else. Nabi is already rooting at my gown, tiny mouth searching for the warmth of me, making soft little sounds like she has been waiting forever to be this close.
I can't help but smile through the exhaustion, feeling the full weight of how perfect and impossible it all is. In this little moment, it is just us, and nothing else matters.
“Skin-to-skin and first feed whenever you are ready,” the nurse smiles. “Appa, want to help with the latch?”
Yoongi’s hands are steady now, guiding my gown down, helping position Nabi until she latches with a soft, satisfied grunt. The pull is strange and perfect, pain and relief and love all at once.
We stay like that, me feeding our daughter, and Yoongi feeding me ice chips and forehead kisses, until the room quiets, monitors steady, and the world outside the door fading to nothing.
Nabi’s eyes drift shut, milk-drunk and content, her tiny fist curled against my skin. Yoongi rests his chin on my shoulder, watching her with the softest smile I have ever seen.
“We did it,” he whispers. “Our family… it’s complete.”
I turn just enough to kiss him again, slow and reverent.
“Almost,” I murmur against his lips. “Wait till Bora meets her.”
He laughs quietly, tears still clinging to his lashes.
“Tomorrow. Tonight, it’s just us.”
The monitors beep softly, the city hums far below, and our daughter sleeps between us, warm and safe, loved beyond measure.
Tomorrow the chaos begins again. Tonight, we are suspended in the quiet miracle of her very first hours, breathing her in, memorizing every perfect detail of Min Nabi, our butterfly, finally free.
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The morning light filters through the hospital blinds in soft golden stripes, painting Nabi’s tiny face in warm glow. She has latched to my breast, nursing with little gulps and sighs, the fierce determination only newborns possess. Her miniature fist is curled against my skin like she is holding on for dear life. I’m propped up on pillows, sore in places I forgot existed, but the ache feels sacred, and earned.
Yoongi sits right beside me, thigh pressed to mine, one arm draped around my shoulders, the other gently supporting Nabi’s blanket-wrapped bottom. We haven’t stopped staring at her since the moment she was born.
I can feel the exact second Yoongi’s phone vibrates against the bedside table. He has been checking it every thirty seconds, waiting for the perfect moment.
“Ready?” he whispers, voice rough from lack of sleep and too many tears.
I nod, brushing a kiss to Nabi’s downy, dark and thick hair, already sticking up in every direction like her Appa’s does when he gets up in the morning.
“Let’s show my mom and Bora.”
The ringing feels endless, as he taps the FaceTime icon. Then his mom’s face fills the screen, eyes puffy from probably crying all night, Bora is bouncing behind her like a little jack-in-the-box.
“Yoongi! Jiminie!”
Her voice cracks immediately.
“Is she... Oh my God—”
Yoongi turns the phone slowly, angling it so Nabi’s face is center frame. The second she sees her, she lets out a broken sob that echoes through the speaker.
“Oh… oh my precious girl… look at her… she’s perfect. She’s absolutely perfect.”
Tears flood my eyes instantly. I didn’t think I had any left after yesterday, but here they are, spilling hot down my cheeks. Nabi makes a tiny squeak, unlatches, and blinks up at the phone with stormy gray eyes.
“Hi Grandma,” I manage, voice wobbling. “Meet your granddaughter. Min Nabi.”
Her hand flies to her mouth, shoulders shaking.
“Oh Jimin, she looks just like you when you smile. And she has Yoongi’s nose, look at that little button!”
Bora shoves her face into frame, curls wild, eyes enormous.
“Amma! Appa! She is sooo tiny! Grandma, zoom in, look at her lips! She has Amma’s lips!”
Yoongi laughs wetly, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand.
“She is 3.4 kilos, Bora. Not that tiny.”
“Still tiny!” Bora insists. “Grandma, pleeeease can we come now? I finished all my homework and I helped make breakfast and I even folded laundry with you! I need to meet her in real life!”
Yoongi's mom smooths Bora’s curls, her own tears still streaming.
“Soon, puppy. Let Amma rest a little more. But look—”
She leans closer to the camera, voice dropping to the softest whisper.
“Nabi, this is your grandma. I already love you sooo much.”
Nabi blinks slowly, then lets out the tiniest, milkiest coo. The sound undoes us all. I’m openly crying now, chest heaving, and Yoongi’s arm tightens around me like he is holding my pieces together.
“We love you both so much,” I choke out. “We will be home this afternoon. Promise.”
The call ends with Bora blowing a thousand kisses and Mom clutching her heart like it might actually burst. Yoongi sets the phone down, cups my wet cheeks, and kisses me slow and deep. It tastes of salt and gratitude and wonder.
“You okay?” he murmurs against my lips.
“Never been better,” I whisper back, and it is the truth.
He spends the next twenty minutes taking photos of Nabi’s tiny fist wrapped around his finger, her cheek squished against my chest, and the three of us tangled together in the hospital bed. He sends them to the group chat.
Yoongi
Homeward bound in a few hours.
Meet our beautiful little butterfly.
Nabi says hi. 💕🦋
The replies explode instantly, like everyone has been camped out with their phones since yesterday.
Jin
I’M CRYING IN THE CARLINE AT KINDERGARTEN
Namjoon
She is beautiful. Jimin, you are a legend.
Hoseok
SOOO CUTE!!!
Taehyung
SHE HAS MY WHOLE HEART ALREADY
Jungkook
PLAYLIST FOR NABI DROPPING IN 3…2…1…
Jin
People keep looking at me weird, because I'm
dropping of my son at kindergarten sobbing more than him.
I laugh until my stomach hurts, then wince because everything still hurts, and Yoongi kisses the top of my head like he can make it all better.
━━━━
A few hours later, the final checks are done, my blood pressure is perfect, and Nabi’s hearing test was passed with flying colors, her little heels pricked for the newborn screening. The nurse wheels me out while Yoongi carries the Maxi-Cosi like it contains the crown jewels. Nabi is bundled in the softest pink blanket Yoongi's mom knitted, eyes wide and wondering at the world rushing past, taking in everything with a curious wonder that melts my heart.
I slide into the backseat beside her car seat, legs still wobbly, and buckle myself in. Yoongi drives like there is a bomb in the car, with both hands on the wheel, speed limit religiously observed, and eyes flicking to the rearview every three seconds. Nabi falls asleep before we even leave the parking garage, lips pursed in a perfect little rosebud, one fist escaped from the blanket and curled by her cheek.
The drive is quiet except for the soft hum of the engine and Yoongi’s occasional whispered assurances.
“We are almost home, butterfly.”
━━━━
She startles awake with a tiny cry of protest, her arms flailing like she is personally offended by the disturbance, the second Yoongi lifts the carrier out of the base. I reach for her instinctively, but my legs are still jelly, so Yoongi just shifts the carrier to one hand and guides me with his free arm.
The elevator ride feels eternal. My heart is in my throat. I can already hear Bora’s excited squeaks echoing down the hallway before the doors even open.
The second we step into the penthouse, they are waiting.
Bora launches herself at my legs first, careful of my belly but fierce in her hug.
“Amma! You are home! You did it!”
Yoongi's mom is right behind her, eyes already red-rimmed, and hands pressed to her mouth. The entire living room transformed into purple and yellow balloons tethered to every surface, a hand-painted banner in Bora’s wobbly hangul that reads WELCOME HOME NABI 🦋, and the faint scent of fresh bibimbap simmering on the stove.
Mom’s gaze locks on the carrier and she crumbles.
“Oh… oh my baby…”
Yoongi moves with quiet care, unbuckling Nabi and lifting her into his arms first so his mom can see. The moment Nabi is free, his mother’s hands tremble as she reaches for her, a quiet desperation in the gesture.
“Can I—?”
“Of course,” Yoongi whispers, his voice soft and steady as he gently transfers our daughter into his mother’s waiting arms.
His mom cradles her like she is made of spun glass, her tears flowing freely now, each one a silent testament to the depth of her love.
“Look at you… my little Nabi… you are even more beautiful in person.”
She presses the gentlest kiss to Nabi’s forehead, then looks up at me with shining eyes.
“Jiminie, thank you. Thank you for giving us this miracle.”
I’m crying again, (big surprise) and she pulls me into a one-armed hug, careful of the baby, kissing my cheek over and over.
“My brave, beautiful boy.”
Bora tugs at my sleeve.
“Amma, you look tired. Sit down. I made you a pillow fort.”
I laugh wetly and let her lead me to the couch, where she has arranged every pillow in the house into a throne. Yoongi follows with the diaper bag like a pack mule, grinning through his own tears.
Mom settles into the rocking chair with Nabi, whispering too fast and soft for me to catch all of it, something about how she will teach her to make kimchi, how she will spoil her rotten, how she is the most perfect grandchild in the universe.
Nabi lasts maybe ten minutes before her face scrunches in pre-cry mode, she is hungry again. I reach for her automatically.
“Come here, butterfly. Amma has got you.”
Yoongi’s mom hands her over gently, and I settle back into the pillows, lifting my shirt. Nabi latches on immediately, as if she has been doing this for years, her tiny gulps filling the quiet room like a soft, soothing rhythm. Yoongi sits beside me, his arm around my shoulders, his chin resting lightly on top of my head, grounding me with his presence.
Bora watches, eyes wide with awe, taking in every moment like it is something magical.
“She is so loud when she drinks.”
“Wait till the burps,” Yoongi teases.
After feeding, I shift Nabi to my shoulder, patting her gently. She lets out a massive burp, the sound so loud it makes Bora dissolve into giggles, while Mom claps as if we have just won a gold medal at the Olympics.
But then, just as quickly, Bora straightens, her face going serious.
“Amma… can I hold her now? Please? I washed my hands three times and I practiced on my doll and everything.”
My heart squeezes so tightly it feels like I can’t breathe. I glance at Yoongi, and he meets my gaze, his eyes full of permission, pride, and something deeper, something warm. I nod, unable to speak through the lump in my throat.
We move to the couch. Yoongi arranges pillows around Bora like a fortress, his movements careful and steady, then guides her arms into the perfect cradling position, his hands lingering for just a moment before he lets go.
“Support her head, puppy. Just like we showed you.”
I lean over carefully, every muscle protesting, and gently lower Nabi into her big sister’s arms for the very first time.
The room falls into a profound stillness.
Bora stares down at her sister, her eyes wide with awe, like she is seeing the stars for the first time. Nabi blinks up at her, her storm-gray eyes round and curious, then lets out the softest, sweetest coo, as though in greeting.
“Hi, Nabi,” Bora whispers, her voice trembling with a wonder too big for her small body. “I’m your big sister. I’m gonna teach you everything, how to draw rainbows, how to dance, how to make Appa laugh when he is grumpy. I already love you so much.”
A single tear slips down her cheek, landing softly on Nabi’s blanket. In response, Nabi’s tiny hand unfurls, fingers stretching, brushing Bora’s thumb, and then, delicately, holding on.
And that is when I lose it completely. Silent sobs shake my shoulders, and I press a hand to my mouth to stifle the sound. Yoongi pulls me into his side, his arm tight around me, kissing my temple over and over, his own eyes a little red.
Across the room, his mom is openly weeping into a tissue, snapping photos with shaking hands, as if trying to capture this perfect, fleeting moment forever.
I look at my family, my mate, my perfect daughters, my mother-in-law who loves me like her own, and I have never felt so whole. Every hurdle, every painful memory, every agonizing contraction, every sleepless night, every stretch mark and tear, it all led to this moment. Two little girls who own my heart completely, a mate who would burn the world down to keep us safe, and a grandmother who crossed the country with banchan and love in her suitcase.
I was a single Omega working every shift available at a convenience store five years ago, terrified of the future. Now I’m here, home, surrounded by more love than I ever dared dream.
Nabi yawns, tiny pink tongue curling, and Bora giggles through her tears.
“She is sleepy. Can she sleep in my room tonight? I will be super quiet, I promise.”
Yoongi chuckles wetly.
“We will see, puppy.”
I lean over, pressing a kiss to Bora’s curls, then Nabi’s forehead, then Yoongi’s lips.
“Thank you,” I whisper to all of them, voice breaking. “For this life. For letting me have this.”
Yoongi kisses me slow and deep, tasting like salt and forever.
“Thank you for choosing us, Jiminie. Every day.”
Nabi sighs softly in her sleep, her tiny chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm, while Bora hums a quiet lullaby to her, the melody sweet and soothing. Yoongi’s mom, ever the planner, is already making mental notes for tomorrow’s breakfast, her mind focused on what is best for milk supply, avocados, oatmeal, maybe a little honey.
The sun dips lower, painting the room in rose gold, and I know, this is the moment I will tell our daughters about when they are older. The day our family became complete. The day love grew so big, so vast and radiant it spilled over the edges of the world, flooding the stars themselves with its boundless, eternal light.
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FINISH
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