Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“What the hell?”

San’s truck groans as it climbs the slight incline of the driveway, the engine giving its usual protesting rattle that always makes him swear he’ll fix it next weekend—and then forget. The headlights sweep across the yard before he flicks them off, leaving only the soft, warm glow of the Christmas lights outlining the house. The lights blink cheerfully against the icy dusk, reflecting off the thin frost on the porch steps.

Except… the lights hadn’t been there this morning. When he left for work, the house was still bare. And he had explicitlytold Wooyoung not to climb anything, not to lift anything, and definitely not to decorate anything without him.

San throws the truck into park and pushes the door open. A sharp slap of winter air hits him instantly; he hisses, remembering too late that he left his jacket in the backseat. His breath fogs in front of him as he stomps toward the house.

“Jung Wooyoung!” he calls, voice cutting through the wind.

Wooyoung is halfway up a ladder, balancing on the second-highest rung, bare hands red from cold as he tries to loop the string of lights around the porch beam. His black tail pokes out from beneath the jacket he stole from San’s side of the closet, the tip twitching with concentration. His ears—plush, dark, and very much not equipped for winter—perk up as he turns.

“Get down from the ladder right now,” San snaps.

“I said I could put them up myself,” Wooyoung grumbles without even looking down, but his tail gives a flick that betrays his irritation.

San’s protective instincts flare instantly. He steps forward and wraps his arms around Wooyoung’s waist—carefully, gently, mindful of the tiny swell under Wooyoung’s coat. 

“Put me down!” Wooyoung yelps, kicking lightly as San pulls him from the ladder. His hands fly down to pry uselessly at San’s wrists. “San, I’m pregnant, not useless!”

“You can be pregnant on the ground,” San grunts, muscles flexing as he lifts Wooyoung like he weighs nothing. He places him onto the cold grass, steadying him by the elbows when Wooyoung nearly slips on a patch of frost.

Wooyoung’s face scrunches adorably—tail puffed, ears angled back—as he glares up at him. In the oversized coat, which hangs off his shoulders but fits snugly over the curve of his belly, he looks more like an indignant house cat than ever.

“That’s dangerous,” San adds, ears flattening as he gestures to the ladder.

“You are tired from work and I wanted them up, so I put them up,” Wooyoung mutters, crossing his arms. His tail swishes with irritated pride. “I’m capable of climbing a ladder.”

“You’re capable of giving me a heart attack,” San fires back.

Behind him, his own tail—long, sleek, pure panther—cuts the air in one slow, warning sweep as he narrows his eyes.

“Get in the house,” San orders.

Wooyoung lets out a frustrated sound that comes out more like a hiss than a word, then turns dramatically toward the front door. He marches inside with stiff, stomping steps, boots leaving little indents in the cold dirt. It’s the cutest attempt at defiance San has ever seen.

He watches Wooyoung disappear inside before turning back to the lights, letting out a long breath that fogs in the cold night. He wishes Wooyoung would listen, most of the time he does.

Most of the time.

San marches back to his truck, breath puffing in the cold as he moves. The driver-side door is still hanging open, letting the interior light spill out faintly onto the frozen gravel. He leans into the cab, reaching across the passenger seat to snag the warm paper bag of fast food—the smell of fries and grilled meat instantly fogging the cab with comforting heat. He grabs the drink carrier next, the cups clinking softly together.

Using one booted foot, he kicks the truck door shut with a dull thunk. The truck rattles almost like it’s protesting being left alone in the cold.

San pauses, glancing back at the house. The Christmas lights are still glowing smugly along the porch, twinkling like they know exactly how stressed they made him. He exhales hard through his nose—half irritation, half fondness—before trudging up toward the cracked-open front door. Warmth spills out through the gap.

“Do you like the lights?”

Wooyoung’s voice greets him before he even steps inside. San looks up to find him standing in the living room, no longer in his jacket but wearing San’s oversized green sweater. The sleeves swallow Wooyoung’s hands, and the hem drapes over his thighs, making him look impossibly small and soft. 

Little house kitty through and through.

San wordlessly hands him the paper bag first, then the drink carrier. Wooyoung takes both carefully, ears flicking with the weight, and carries them to the coffee table.

“I do like the lights,” San says, bending down to unlace his boots. His fingers ache a little; it’s been a long day, too long, but he swallows the groan before it slips out. “But I don’t like that you were on a ladder. Your body isn’t the same as it was.”

“And whose fault is that?” Wooyoung huffs, crossing his arms. His tail curls around one leg, puffing ever so slightly as he watches San tug his boots off. “Sure wasn’t mine.”

San snorts as he stands, his own tail—long, sleek, panther-black—brushing lightly against the wall as he steps closer. He lifts his hands, hovering them over Wooyoung’s stomach like a ritual he performs every time he comes home.

Wooyoung grabs his wrists lightly. 

“Your hands are dirty.”

“It’s my hoodie,” San grumbles, tugging the sweater fabric gently as he places his palms on Wooyoung’s stomach anyway, just enough pressure to feel the firmness underneath. The beginnings of fullness. Of life. “Besides, they’re warm.”

“They’ve been quiet. Mostly,” Wooyoung’s ears tilt forward as he looks down, watching San’s fingers slowly sweep over his stomach. “One kicked earlier, but I think that was just them telling me I’m hungry.”

San’s tail swishes once behind him, lazy and affectionate. He leans in a little. 

“I love you,” he whispers, thumb brushing the fabric stretched over Wooyoung’s belly. “Be as pretty as your daddy.”

Wooyoung’s eyes widen, then narrow. “And if they look like you?”

San smirks.

“I will never forgive you,” Wooyoung continues dramatically, placing a hand over his own chest, “if I have to carry our kittens and they come out looking exactly like you. One has to look like me. I deserve one.”

“We don’t even know how many are in there,” San murmurs, sliding his arms fully around Wooyoung now, pulling him close until their foreheads almost touch. Wooyoung melts into him instantly, smelling like the house—like cinnamon from the candle he probably lit, like soap from his shower, like warmth and safety. “All of them could look like me.”

Wooyoung recoils just enough to grab San’s forearm.

“I’m hungry!” he whines, tail puffing dramatically in pure offense. San would laugh if his heart didn’t ache from how cute he was. Wooyoung’s tail can go from sleek to angry cotton ball in two seconds flat. San’s never could—too long, too heavy—but it expresses its own brand of affection, curling now around Wooyoung’s thigh.

“Wash your hands, you dirty cat!” Wooyoung scolds, pushing him toward the kitchen.

San bares a playful flash of teeth.

San does wash his hands thoroughly—up to his wrists, scrubbing until the water runs clear. Black grit and engine dust swirl down the drain, the kind that always gets caught under his nails no matter how careful he is at work. He works the soap into a thick lather, remembering the dozens of times Wooyoung scolded him, tiny hands on his hips, saying a clean house kitty shouldn’t have to cuddle a dirty panther.

Wooyoung has trained him well.

San wouldn’t call himself a slob, exactly, but he’s learned there’s a very specific difference between “clean” and “Wooyoung-clean.” The house kitty likes things pristine, likes things soft and tidy and smelling like vanilla candles. San, on the other hand, grew up thinking that as long as things weren’t sticky or moving on their own, they were fine.

A black panther and a little house cat were bound to have differences. They’ve just learned to adjust around each other’s edges.

When he finishes, he dries his hands on the fluffy towel Wooyoung insists on washing with lavender detergent. Then he pads back into the living room.

Wooyoung is already perched on the couch, sitting cross-legged like the picture of domestic confidence, preparing his burger with delicate precision. He unwraps the paper slowly, making sure nothing spills, arranging his fries into a little pile. San brought him a water and a milkshake—his kitty always wants two drinks, even if he only finishes one. The milkshake is already sweating on the table, straw poking out like an invitation.

San lets out a low grunt as he sinks onto the couch beside him, his tired legs practically thanking the cushions.

“What did you do today? Besides put up the lights,” he asks, shaking his head as he accepts the burger Wooyoung hands over. He takes a massive bite, nearly devouring half of it in one go.

Wooyoung wrinkles his nose. 

“I’m trying to finish that sweater. For the baby.” He keeps nudging his fries around until they’re in the exact spot he wants. Unlike San, Wooyoung never eats until everything is arranged perfectly. “I should make more than one if there’s more babies… but we don’t even know what they’ll like. What if they don’t like blue?”

“They’ll like whatever you make them,” San insists without hesitation, chewing loudly. “Blue, red, purple… whatever.”

“I guess,” Wooyoung mumbles, finally taking a bite of his burger. He chews thoughtfully, ears flicking. “I just wish I knew what they’d like.”

“They’re babies, Wooyoung.” San turns his head, smiling. His kitty looks small in his sweater, tail curled neatly on the couch beside him. “I don't think they’re gonna come out complaining that their sweater is the wrong color.”

“They could!” Wooyoung argues, lifting a fry dramatically. “Tails are very expressive.” He pauses. “…If they even have tails.”

The air softens between them.

There is a chance their babies—baby? babies?—could be born without any hybrid traits at all. Two hybrids can produce a fully human child. It’s rare, but it happens. They’ve talked about it before but it still sits heavy.

San leans a little closer, voice gentler. 

“I hope they have cute pointed ears and a puffy tail,” he says. “I hope they look exactly like their momma.”

“I’m not a momma,” Wooyoung grumbles immediately—though his cheeks go bright pink, ears twitching as he ducks his head. His pout deepens as he takes another bite of his burger, trying to hide the way he’s secretly pleased.

San smiles into his own food, heart warm and full.

They eat side by side in easy silence, brushing shoulders occasionally, Wooyoung’s tail curling around San’s thigh whenever he relaxes. Wooyoung hiccups softly and reaches for the remote, pressing play on the show they promised not to watch without each other.

It’s a small living room. A small house. 

A small, quiet life.

The two of them eat together in comfortable silence, the kind that settles only after years of learning each other’s rhythms. San finishes long before Wooyoung, of course—he devours his food like a starving animal while Wooyoung eats like he’s sampling each bite for quality control. When San’s plate is empty, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and reaches forward, sliding his hands beneath Wooyoung’s knees to lift his legs.

Wooyoung lets him, barely looking away from his fries, and San guides the smaller man’s legs across his lap. His tail gives a pleased flick as warm weight settles over him. Wooyoung’s striped socks immediately catch his eye—soft, pastel, worn enough to have stretched slightly at the heel. San smiles, hooking a finger beneath the fabric and peeling them off one at a time.

Wooyoung’s toes wiggle when the cool air hits them. San huffs a laugh.

They’re pretty toes. Delicate, soft, shaped like they were crafted solely to be admired. Every inch of Wooyoung is pretty, San has always thought—pretty on purpose. Pretty in every way San is not. His own feet are broad, rough, calloused from years of work; Wooyoung’s feet, by contrast, are smooth and warm and gentle against his palms.

San cups one foot between both hands and begins to massage, slow and deliberate, rubbing his thumbs over the arch the way Wooyoung likes. The TV flickers softly in front of them, but San barely pays attention. He feels Wooyoung relax by degrees, tail curling lazily along the couch cushions, ears occasionally twitching in response to whatever he tastes or sees on the screen.

Wooyoung nibbles his burger, bites his fries, and now and then reaches for his milkshake with a quiet hum of pleasure. The small, unconscious noises he makes—little chirps and soft hums—are San’s favorite soundtrack in the world.

San kneads gently at his foot, thinking about the future without meaning to. 

Wooyoung’s feet.

Their kittens’ feet—whatever those end up looking like.

It doesn’t matter to him who the babies look like or whether they’re hybrid or human. But some deep, instinctual part of him—something old and feline and beyond logic—hopes at least one kitten will have Wooyoung’s ears. His warm eyes. His fiery little spirit.

His kind heart.

San’s tail sways once, slow and content, as he imagines small paws pattering around their little house.

A loud slurp breaks the moment.

San blinks, turning his head. Wooyoung is hunched over his cup, holding the lid open with one hand and tapping the straw with the other, ears perked forward in fierce concentration as he tries to pull the last molecules of milkshake from the bottom.

“I think it’s done, baby,” San laughs softly, still holding Wooyoung’s feet.

“I like the blueberries in it,” Wooyoung says without shame, glancing up through his lashes though his ears flatten in embarrassment. “You think next time you can get one with just blueberries?”

San narrows his eyes. 

“Do you want another smoothie, Wooyoung?”

“No—no, I… it was just really good.” Wooyoung mumbles, scooting forward to set the empty cup on the table. His stomach squishes slightly against the sweater, and San’s tail swishes again—because Wooyoung is cute, and because he’s clearly not saying what he wants.

“I’ll go get another one for you,” San offers easily.

“I just like the blueberries,” Wooyoung insists, shaking his head quickly. “Next time, just get a blueberry milkshake.”

San stares at the TV for half a heartbeat.

Barely a full second passes.

Then he shifts Wooyoung’s legs gently off his lap, lowering them onto the couch like he’s handling something precious.

“Give me fifteen.” San says, already standing.

“No—I—I don’t need it,” Wooyoung insists, frowning, his ears pinned so tightly against his head they almost disappear into his hair. His eyes follow San with growing irritation and worry as San crosses the room to pull on a pair of sneakers. Wooyoung’s tail, usually lively and expressive, lies flattened against the couch, twitching only at the tip. “Sannie, you’ve been out all day. Just sit with me and watch our show.”

“It won’t take long,” San murmurs, glancing around the room in mild confusion before remembering—right, his jacket is still in the car. Great. He’s going to freeze his ass off. “Stay here, I’ll be back.”

“Choi San—will you come back?!” Wooyoung calls after him, trying to push himself up off the couch to chase him down. He makes it almost upright before his rounded little stomach pulls him off balance and forces him back into the cushions with a frustrated huff. His tail puffs—just a little—at the defeat.

San pauses long enough to hear it, smiling softly.

“Love you. Be careful,” Wooyoung mutters, grumpy but worried, especially once San starts moving again.

“I will,” San promises as he pulls open the front door and gets blasted with cold night air. His tail turns instinctively under his sweater, trying to create warmth that isn’t there. He shuts the door behind him, the lock clicking into place, and forces himself down the front steps.

The nagging instinct between his shoulder blades tightens. It always does when he leaves Wooyoung alone.

Most hybrids feel some kind of protective instinct, but San’s hits him like gravity—heavy, unavoidable, persistent. It usually eases when he’s at work, surrounded by routines and noise, but tonight it thrums like a warning. His panther side does not like leaving his little house cat in the den alone. Doesn’t like the cold. Doesn’t like the dark. Doesn’t like being away when Wooyoung is pregnant.

Probably why he doesn’t want Wooyoung working anymore.

Not because Wooyoung isn’t capable—he’s had plenty of jobs. But once he became San’s, once they built a home together… San’s instincts settled into a firm, possessive certainty that Wooyoung shouldn’t have to lift a finger unless he wants to.

And after the kids are born, San has a feeling he won’t want them to go anywhere.

The kids…

San settles into the truck, the worn seat squeaking under his weight. He grips the steering wheel, glancing sideways at the other car in the driveway—Wooyoung’s four-door sedan. A practical, unimpressive thing with a huge trunk and terrible gas mileage. But safe. Solid. The kind of car that fits car seats and diaper bags and strollers.

San’s truck? Bench seats. No back row. Pure steel and engine noise. Good for picking up Wooyoung on a date.

Terrible for babies.

San exhales, adjusting the gearshift. He backs out carefully, headlights sweeping over the house—the soft glow of Christmas lights on the porch, the window that looks into their living room, a warm rectangle of yellow where Wooyoung is no doubt pouting and waiting.

The street outside is empty. The whole town is empty, really. A tiny Midwest dot. Once he leaves the driveway, it’s all long stretches of road with thick trees or flat fields on each side. 

Just black sky, winter air, and the hum of his old engine.

A small, quiet place.

San drives quietly, fingers loose on the steering wheel as the radio hums some mid-tempo pop song he’s never heard before. It fills the cab just enough—thin and tinny through the old speakers—so he doesn’t have to sit with the heavy silence pressing into his ears. The road stretches ahead, a long ribbon of dark asphalt broken only by the occasional passing car. The town itself sits like a glow on the horizon, and as he gets closer, it blooms into life—neon signs flickering, fast-food windows glowing gold, storefront LEDs washing the street in shifting colors.

He turns into the fast-food place, the gravel crunching under the truck tires as he pulls into a spot. When he steps out, the cold air immediately nips at his arms and neck—he forgot his jacket again. He mutters a low curse, shutting the truck door with his hip before hurrying inside, shoulders tense against the chill.

The restaurant is nearly empty. No line. Just the low buzz of the freezers and the warm smell of fryer oil hanging in the air. San slows his pace a little as he approaches the counter, tail giving a small uncertain sway behind him. The girl at the register has her hair pinned back under her visor, her expression soft but bored in that teenage, late-shift way.

“Can you guys do just a blueberry smoothie?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

“Of course,” she says, fingers tapping quickly on the screen. “What size?”

“Large,” San answers immediately. “And I have a weird question—can I buy, like… a cup of blueberries?”

Her tapping stops. Her eyebrows pull together. San instinctively shifts his weight, his tail swishing behind him in a nervous arc.

“A cup?” she repeats.

“Is that possible?” San feels his ears press back a little, cheeks warming. “I know it’s a weird ask and—and I don’t even think you sell the blueberries, but I’m just asking. My partner is pregnant and they really—really like the blueberries so I’m just… seeing if it’s possible.”

The young girl blinks, jaw softening.

“Let me ask my manager,” she says with a small, almost encouraging smile. She disappears into the back, and San exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. He glances behind him instinctively—still no one in line. Good. The last thing he needs is someone overhearing him beg for a cup of fruit like it’s a black-market deal.

“What are you trying to buy?” a new voice asks.

The manager steps out from the kitchen—older than the girl, blond hair pulled tight, eyebrows drawn in mild confusion. San straightens a little too quickly, tail flicking again.

“I want to buy a cup of blueberries,” he explains, hands gesturing small and hopeful. “It doesn’t have to be a big cup. Just… a cup. My—my partner is pregnant and they really want some.”

He blinks at her, wide-eyed and earnest, and for a moment the manager looks between him and the register as if weighing policy against pity.

“Normally we don’t sell ingredients unmixed,” she says slowly, still thinking. She looks down at the screen, then back at him. “I can sell you a small cup of blueberries, but I’d have to ring you up for a few extra smoothies to cover the cost.”

“That’s fine—that’s more than fine,” San says quickly, relief blooming across his face. His smile is bright and unrestrained. “Charge me fifty bucks for some blueberries if you have to.”

“More like twenty-seven ninety-nine,” she chuckles, shaking her head as she starts typing. “But if you’re willing to pay for it, I’ll make it happen.”

San smiles, tail swishing in a loose, content rhythm behind him, the kind of movement he doesn’t even realize he’s doing when he’s genuinely relieved. He swipes a hand over his forehead, brushing away hair that isn’t even in his eyes—just something to keep his hands busy. The manager gives him a curt, almost fond nod before turning back toward the blenders and prep counter, already pulling gloves on as if preparing for surgery. He can hear the faint clatter of plastic scoops and the whir of a machine starting up.

The young girl stays stationed at the register, tapping her nails absently against the side of the counter. It’s clear she’s staying put in case anyone else walks in, though the place still feels empty and quiet, like a rest stop at the edge of midnight.

San steps off to the side to wait, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. When he glances down, his heart sinks a little. His jeans are smudged with dried dirt from crawling under the truck earlier, and there’s a long streak of grease across his shirt where he wiped his hand without thinking.

Great. Real classy.

He sighs softly. Wooyoung is definitely going to fuss at him for sitting on the couch like this. He can already picture the look—the pointed eyebrows, the little gasp, the dramatic, “San! The couch!” He’ll deserve it too. He really has to get better about changing when he gets home instead of collapsing onto the first soft surface available.

“For San?” a voice calls.

San’s head snaps up. He steps forward quickly, tail giving an anticipatory twitch. Two foam cups sit on the counter, one heavy with smoothie, the other noticeably lighter. He picks up both but immediately pauses, curiosity tugging him toward the lighter one. He pops the lid open and beams when he sees it—filled to the brim with frozen blueberries, tiny frosted beads catching the fluorescent light.

“Thank you!” San chirps, genuine and bright. The young girl grins at him, and even the manager gives a small wave from the back.

He pushes out into the cold night, the door chiming faintly behind him. His beaten-up old truck sits exactly where he left it, looking a little lopsided on its rusted frame but still somehow loyal. San approaches awkwardly, juggling the two cups against his chest as he wrestles the door open with his elbow.

Inside, he leans over to set them carefully in the cup holders—one fitting snugly, the other wobbling just enough to make him adjust it twice. He turns the key, and the truck shudders, coughs, then rattles awake like an old dog shaking itself.

San exhales, a soft smile pulling at his lips as he pulls out of the parking lot. The lights fade behind him as he heads home—home to Wooyoung, who better appreciate these stupidly expensive blueberries.

San drives down the long, empty roads with only his headlights cutting through the darkness, twin beams stretching endlessly ahead and bouncing off the reflective paint of faded lines. The hum of the engine fills the cab in a steady, low vibration he barely registers anymore. His mind drifts instead—over the blueberries sitting in the cup holder, over Wooyoung’s stubborn little face when he insists he doesn’t want something he clearly wants, over how his ears had pinned tight to his head when he protested.

He hopes Wooyoung likes them. Really likes them. Especially after San spent twenty-seven dollars on a cup of fruit. Wooyoung is absolutely going to scold him for that, probably with a pout and a pointed tail flick. Or maybe… maybe San just won’t mention the price at all.

Good plan. Very good plan. Wooyoung never needs to know that.

The familiar gravel crunches under the tires as San pulls into their driveway, the house coming into view in the dark—a little square of warmth lit by strings of colorful Christmas lights. Reds, greens, blues, all twinkling in uneven patterns across the gutters and porch railings.

San still can’t believe Wooyoung put them up himself. Pregnant and waddling, or at least on the way to, and definitely not supposed to be climbing on anything. The thought makes something deep in San’s chest squeeze. His tail swishes without him thinking about it, excitement paired with that instinctual warmth of bringing something home. 

Providing.

He parks, grabs both cups carefully so he doesn’t spill them, and steps out into the cold. The air stings his skin but he moves quickly, tail flicking behind him as he unlocks the front door and presses inside.

“Hey,” San calls softly as he kicks off his shoes. “I got you a smoothie and a cup of the blueberries—they’re frozen but I think they’re pretty good.”

He pads forward and the sight that greets him nearly knocks him over with how sweet it is. Wooyoung is on the couch, swallowed—no, completely devoured—by a mountain of blankets. Hood up, ears tucked somewhere inside, and one of San’s shirts pulled tight against his nose like it’s his lifeline. Only his eyes peek out, soft and sleepy and so very Wooyoung.

“What a cute little nest you made,” San murmurs, tail swaying affectionately.

“Give me my smoothie,” Wooyoung demands, voice muffled under the fabric.

“Very demanding, my little kitty is.” San holds both cups up like offerings. “Do you want the blueberries? I got them to give me a cup of them. They’re frozen.”

“You… bought a cup of blueberries?” Wooyoung asks, voice suddenly small, ears twitching under the hoodie.

“Take it,” San urges, careful not to disturb the nest’s delicate architecture. Wooyoung’s hand slips out—quick, grabby, like a paw—and he snatches the cup, popping the lid open immediately. He stares inside, blinking rapidly, some soft part of his expression loosening.

San’s tail swishes uncertainly. 

“Will you sit with me?” Wooyoung whispers, still staring at the berries like he’s afraid they’ll disappear.

“Yeah—lemme change my clothes. I’m all dirty—”

“No—no I just…” Wooyoung’s voice cracks, a tiny distressed whine bubbling up. Panic edges into it so quickly San reacts before Wooyoung even finishes. “I don’t—it’s not—“

“I’m not going anywhere,” San promises gently.

He glances at his grease-stained clothes and sighs. Not ideal. But Wooyoung is seconds away from crying if he moves an inch farther. So he strips right there—shirt over his head and tossed to the floor, jeans kicked off until he’s left in his boxers and socks.

“Can I sit with you in your nest, kitty?” he asks softly.

Wooyoung nods and shifts one blanket aside, just enough to let him in. San settles beside him, and instantly Wooyoung crawls closer, dragging the entire fortress of blankets with him until both of them are swaddled together. Wooyoung’s legs flop over San’s lap, the blankets piled so high they’re almost unmovable.

San hands over the blueberries fully, watching as Wooyoung scoops them up with both hands—cupping them, digging through them, bringing them to his mouth with quick little motions. Like paws. Like instinct.

“I love you,” San murmurs, voice low as he watches Wooyoung crunch through a berry with a soft sound.

“Thank you,” Wooyoung replies shyly, cheeks warming under the hood. “Sorry. I just… I really wanted these.”

“You know I’d get you anything,” San says, reaching forward to gently cup Wooyoung’s tummy over the sweatshirt, rubbing slow circles. “You don’t have to be embarrassed about cravings.”

“But I don’t like that I crave so many things now.” Wooyoung frowns even as he pops more berries into his mouth. “I never used to be like this.”

“You never had this before either,” San says, voice softening. His hand spreads comfortably over Wooyoung’s belly. “Just relax. Let your cravings be part of this.”

“Mhm.” Wooyoung grunts, still munching with clear determination. “I love you too.”

“My little kitty,” San coos, leaning in to kiss his temple. His long panther tail curls around Wooyoung’s thigh, a careful, protective loop that keeps him snug in San’s lap.

Wooyoung pauses only to lift a small handful of berries to San’s lips. An offering. A request to share.

San smiles, wide and hopeless, and eats them right from Wooyoung’s hand.

Oh yes. 

A quiet life with his little house kitty—blankets, cravings, blueberry fingers and all—is the only life San wants.

Chapter Text

A pregnant belly does not fit well inside a winter coat, no matter how hard San’s little house kitty tugs, pulls, and twists his jacket.

Wooyoung huffs under his breath, ears flicking in irritation as the zipper snags against the curve of his stomach for the third time. His tail is puffed out in mild frustration, the soft fur bristling like he’s offended by the laws of physics themselves.

Part of San questions—quietly, secretly—why Wooyoung is so…big in the first place.

He knows hybrids carry differently, and Wooyoung has always been small, delicate, the most dainty type of house kitty you could imagine. San may be a panther with broad shoulders and the kind of build meant to fight off forests full of predators, but maybe he hadn’t considered what his strength, his size, might mean for Wooyoung’s tiny body. His belly is more distended than he expected at twenty weeks, rounder and heavier, resting like a weight Wooyoung constantly has to brace himself under.

The doctor said everything was normal for interspecies pregnancies, but still—still—he shouldn’t be this big, should he?

“Can you put on my boots?” Wooyoung asks, voice tight, as if the simple act of standing too long has worn out every ounce of patience in his body.

It’s started to snow pretty heavily now, thick flakes drifting past the windows, melting on the porch before icing over again. They’re just past the middle of winter, when the cold sinks into bone and fur, when the wind sneaks through every crack of the old house. And Wooyoung likes to keep his body warm—needs to, really. A pretty little house kitty doesn’t have thick skin or dense fur like a panther. He gets cold fast, fingers numb, ears drooping; he curls around heat sources like he was made for safe places and soft blankets.

San kneels in front of him by the doorway, the wooden floor chilled even through his joggers. He lowers himself slowly, stalking-cat smooth, and watches as Wooyoung lifts one delicate, socked foot into the boot. Wooyoung braces a hand on San’s shoulder for balance, a soft, warm weight that sends a protective ripple through San’s chest. Once the foot is inside, Wooyoung presses down, wiggling a little until it settles. San ties the laces, careful—always careful—not to make them too tight. Wooyoung’s feet are almost always swollen now, the skin pinker, the pads softer, his ankles tender to the touch.

“Good?” San asks. From this angle, looking up from the floor, his line of sight is filled with Wooyoung’s belly—round, firm, impossibly full—and then Wooyoung’s flushed cheeks, his slightly annoyed, slightly tired expression. The sight shouldn’t make San’s instincts tingle with pride, shouldn’t make something primal unfurl in his stomach like a satisfied growl. But it does.

He did that to his little house kitty. He put that life there, that fullness, that scent of warmth and sweetness that radiates off Wooyoung’s skin.

“And my hat and gloves?” Wooyoung asks, lips in a tight line that is less irritation and more exhaustion. His tail sways behind him, slow and heavy.

San rises immediately, no hesitation, turning toward the hooks by the doorway. He grabs the mushroom hat Wooyoung crocheted ages ago—one for him and one for San, a matching set that had made Wooyoung blush when he offered them. Soft yarn, slightly uneven stitches, perfectly them. San gently tugs the hat over Wooyoung’s head, maneuvering around his ears with both hands cupping him like something fragile.

Then he finds the scarf, the thick store-bought one Wooyoung prefers because it doesn’t itch, and loops it around his shoulders. He folds the ends carefully so it covers his collarbones, his chest, and the bottom of his chin, tucking him into warmth as if preparing him to go into a snowstorm war.

San loves doting on him like this. Loves that Wooyoung lets him. Wooyoung is fully capable of dressing himself—defiant, stubborn, independent even on his worst days—but pregnancy has made him swollen and tired, limbs heavy, patience thinner than paper. Some mornings San is sure Wooyoung doesn’t have the energy to do anything but sit there and be pretty.

And to carry for San.

To carry his child, his future, the little life that makes San’s heart thud with something too big to name.

And San will do anything—everything—to make that feel even a fraction easier.

Once San is done dressing him, he finally reaches for his own jacket—an old, all-black thing with a Sherpa liner that’s been through more winters than he can count. The sleeves are a little frayed, the fabric worn soft at the elbows, and one of the front pockets doesn’t zip anymore. He’s had it since high school, a relic from a time when he hadn’t known he’d end up here—mated, settled, building a family. The only real damage had been the loose seams in the cuffs, threads sticking out like whiskers. Wooyoung had clicked his tongue when he saw it and stitched it right up in ten minutes flat. His little house kitty is mean with a needle and his hands—fast, precise, almost smug about how easily he can fix things San ruins.

“Ready?” San asks with a grin, shrugging into the jacket. He only wears that—no hat, no gloves. He runs warm, naturally, the way big cats do. The cold doesn’t bite him as sharply; it glances off him like something unworthy.

Wooyoung nods, cheeks puffed out a little, and turns to lead the way. It’s more of a waddle than a walk now, the kind of careful, side-to-side rocking movement pregnancy forces on someone so small. San tries—tries really hard—not to stare at the sway of his hips, at the way his tail lifts for balance, at the soft heaviness in his steps.

But gods, the waddling is cute. So painfully cute it scratches at his instincts.

San locks the door behind them, the metal clicking in the cold, and hurries to catch up. Wooyoung is already trudging toward the passenger side of the truck, snowflakes clinging to his hat and coat. He still insists on taking the truck instead of the four-door sedan they bought specifically for the babies and for Wooyoung’s comfort. Something safer. Something lower to the ground. Something easy.

But no.

His house kitty wants the truck—wants things to stay the same, wants the routine and familiarity and the feeling of being able to do what he did before.

So San helps him up, one arm steadying his elbow, the other bracing his lower back to give him leverage. Wooyoung steps onto the running board, groaning softly as he hoists himself into the seat. Once he’s up, he settles, then adjusts—both hands lifting and guiding his belly so it rests comfortably across his thighs. It takes a moment before he sighs, finally finding a position that doesn’t pinch or press.

San doesn’t close the door until he’s sure everything is right—seatbelt reachable, coat unbunched, tail not trapped beneath him. Only then does he shut the door gently and jog around the front of the truck to slide into the driver’s side.

“Thank you,” Wooyoung says quietly once San buckles in. It’s the first time he’s said it that day, even though they’d had that conversation—a while back now—where San explained that he didn’t want thank you’s. Not for things like this. Not from him. San didn’t need gratitude; he needed Wooyoung happy. Needed smiles and little giggles, the softness of a house kitty who trusted him. That was enough.

“I love you,” Wooyoung adds, voice softer than the snowfall outside.

“I love you too.”

That’s more like it.

The drive to the hospital—the real hospital, not the little clinic only ten minutes from their house—is a long, nearly hour-long stretch of road that cuts through empty farmland and thin, snow-covered forest. When they picked this town, they both knew what they were signing up for: isolation, quiet, the kind of stillness that wraps around you like a blanket. No crowds, no traffic, no noise except the wind and the occasional deer crossing the road. It’s a quiet life. A quiet life with each other. Exactly what they wanted.

San hums under his breath as the radio plays some old, soft rock song. He taps the steering wheel with his thumb in rhythm, driving with his right hand like always. Wooyoung isn’t a big hand-holder in the car—not because he doesn’t want to, but because he insists San focus on driving instead of him. He’s strict about that, actually. If San so much as glances too long at him, Wooyoung swats his arm and tells him to look at the damn road.

Naturally, that rule has only ever broken in one particular circumstance: when Wooyoung has been in heat.

Then all bets are off.

There have been times—too many vivid ones—where Wooyoung had climbed right over the center console, hot and needy, practically purring into San’s mouth as he settled into his lap or straddled—

San shoves that thought violently out of his mind, claws almost itching against the steering wheel, and looks toward Wooyoung instead before his imagination gets him killed on a snowy road.

The windows are fogged around the edges from the heater running warm, blurring the world into a soft haze. Wooyoung sits curled slightly toward the passenger door, gloved hands draped protectively over his belly. His breathing is slow, steady. His head is tilted just a little off-center, ears angled downward in a way that means he isn’t paying attention to anything anymore.

San looks back to the road out of pure responsible instinct, but he leans forward a bit to double-check—

His little house kitty has fallen asleep.

San bites back a smile, but it’s useless. It spreads across his face like wildfire, pulling at the corners of his mouth until he’s grinning from ear to ear. His long tail lifts off the seat and swishes lazily over his ribs, betraying every ounce of his affection. God, he’s so cute. So sweet. So trusting, fast asleep in a rattly old truck that definitely needs a new suspension. Every bump has the whole thing clunking, but Wooyoung is comfortable enough—safe enough—to just drift off like nothing could possibly hurt him as long as San is there.

San’s heart squeezes painfully. The good kind of pain.

He turns his head again, only for a second, and brings his hand up to his mouth. He presses his pointer finger between his teeth, gnawing lightly at the knuckle to keep himself in check. Because part of him—some stupid feral corner of his brain—wants to pull the truck over, crawl across the seat, and absolutely smother Wooyoung in affection. In kisses. In scent. In every form of contact a panther could give.

But he cannot.

He will not.

First of all, Wooyoung is pregnant, which means San has to be gentle. Super gentle. Ultra, mega gentle, especially now that Wooyoung is so big it actually makes San nervous to blink wrong near him. Second, they cannot be late. Not today. Not for this.

If Wooyoung had to go another week not knowing the gender of their babies—baby—whatever’s in there?

He would be furious. And stressed. And disappointed. And San would never forgive himself for doing that to him.

Especially considering the last tiny detail that hits San again like a truck:

They don’t even know how many are in there.

Could be one. Could be two. Could be…well, they’re not sure yet.

And San is driving through snow with a sleeping house kitty full of mystery babies, trying not to let his instincts eat him alive.

San manages to get to the hospital in the next city over without any trouble—a miracle considering the snow, the winding back roads, and the way his attention keeps drifting toward the sleeping hybrid in the passenger seat. The hospital itself rises in front of them like a monolith, a far cry from the tiny brick clinic back home. It’s tall, wide, bright, and bustling—more floors than their whole town probably has buildings. San has to blink at it for a second, adjusting to the idea that they’re not in their quiet little bubble anymore.

He turns into the parking garage, the concrete ramp echoing under the truck’s tires. It spirals upward—one level, then another, then another. And every floor is packed. Cars squeezed into every corner, lights reflecting off windows, muffled sounds of city traffic humming in the distance. San mutters under his breath as he goes up again. And again. And again.

By the seventh floor, he finally spots a space—right beside the elevators, thank god. At least Wooyoung won’t have to walk far. San pulls the truck carefully into the spot and keeps the engine running, the heater blowing warm air across both of them.

Before doing anything else, he leans forward, bracing a hand on the wheel so he can look at Wooyoung’s sleeping face. Wooyoung is curled slightly toward the window, scarf bunched around his chin, eyelashes brushing the apples of his cheeks. His breathing is soft, his ears drooped, his tail loosely curled between his legs.

San feels his heart flip over. He doesn’t want to wake him. He wants to sit here forever, watching him sleep.

But they can’t be late. They’re supposed to be fifteen minutes early, and they already pushed it by driving slow on the snow.

“Kitty?” San whispers, reaching forward to gently nudge Wooyoung’s shoulder with his fingertips. His long panther tail curls up between the seats too, brushing lightly against Wooyoung’s arm like a second, smaller creature trying to wake him.

Wooyoung groans, a soft, pitiful sound, shifting just slightly. His face scrunches up, eyebrows furrowing, lips pushing into a pout like the world has personally wronged him by asking him to wake up.

San drops his hand, but his tail keeps brushing him, slow and comforting, like a feline apology.

Finally Wooyoung turns his head, bleary-eyed and clearly not ready to be conscious. His eyes are half open—barely—and the corners are shiny with exhaustion. His mouth forms a small frown that makes San’s chest ache.

“What’s wrong?” San murmurs, leaning over the console, trying to see his face better. Wooyoung lets out a long sigh, his eyelids fluttering shut again as he leans subtly toward San, seeking warmth, seeking him.

San brings a hand up, petting gently over the top of Wooyoung’s head, smoothing along his ears with slow, careful strokes.

“I know you’re tired,” he coos softly, “but once we’re inside you can sit. I’ll sign us in, okay? You don’t have to do anything.”

Wooyoung nods a tiny bit, letting himself melt into the touch. He shifts closer, turning his head so he can nuzzle into San’s palm—soft, warm, seeking comfort in a way that makes San’s instincts ring like a bell.

Then, in the faintest, most pitiful voice:

“I’m hungry.”

San breaks into a laugh before he can help it, gently pulling back enough to meet Wooyoung’s eyes. His kitty looks miserable and adorable at the same time, cheeks puffed, bottom lip out just a little.

“Then let’s go in,” San smiles, brushing a thumb over his cheek. “The quicker we get this done, the quicker we can get you fed and back in bed.”

Wooyoung’s ears perk the slightest bit. Food and bed—those are magic words.

San turns off the truck and hops out, ready to take care of the rest.

San walks around the truck, boots crunching through the thin layer of snow that’s already settled in the garage. He opens the passenger door and immediately leans forward, arms out, ready to catch his mate if he so much as sways wrong. Wooyoung already has one hand cradling his belly—protective, unconscious—and uses the other to grip San’s forearm. He steps down slowly, carefully, putting most of his weight onto San so he doesn’t strain himself or twist anything.

San keeps a firm hand at his waist the whole time, bracing him until both feet are steady on the concrete.

Once Wooyoung is out, they fall into step easily. San intertwines their arms so they walk side-by-side, close and connected. His long black panther tail curls around Wooyoung’s wrist as well—light pressure, just enough to tether him. A second form of contact, a second point of reassurance. Double security. Double protection. His tail always does that when he’s anxious or feeling protective, and today he’s both.

They head toward the elevators. The metal doors slide open with a heavy ding, and they step in. The ride down is strangely quiet, just the hum of the old machinery and the faint shuffle of Wooyoung adjusting his weight from one foot to the other. When the doors open again, it’s to another level of the parking garage—but unlike the other floors, this one has a hallway that leads directly into the hospital.

The temperature changes instantly. The moment they step inside, a wave of warm, recycled air rolls over them. It’s a little too warm, if anything, hitting their cold cheeks and fogging Wooyoung’s glasses for a second. The halls are wide, lined with large signs pointing toward specialty departments, and the floors gleam under the fluorescent lights.

They follow the arrows, walking through sterile white corridors until they reach the waiting area for prenatal imaging.

The waiting room is… hideous. Bright, buzzing fluorescent lights that give everything a sickly yellow tint. Unfriendly tan and faded green chairs with metal arms that look like they belong in a DMV. A rack of outdated magazines, half of them bent or torn. The smell of sanitizer clings to everything.

“Sit,” San says softly, leading Wooyoung toward an empty row of chairs. He guides him down carefully, hands steady at Wooyoung’s elbows.

Wooyoung groans as he lowers himself, the noise drawn-out and dramatic, planting himself in the seat like he’s taking root there forever. His tail sticks out stiffly behind him for a moment before curling around his hip.

“I’ll check you in,” San promises, smoothing a hand over Wooyoung’s shoulder before stepping away.

He hurries to the front desk, heart pounding a little as he prays they’re not too late.

“Last name Choi,” he says with a polite smile to the nurse. It still feels new—Wooyoung having his last name. Sometimes when they’re arguing or when Wooyoung is tired and slips into old habits, he’ll call himself Jung Wooyoung again, like nothing changed. San never corrects him. It was his name for so long—his whole life, really. And then suddenly they got married, and everything flipped, and now he’s Choi.

It’s strange. Strange, but also the best kind of strange. A blessing. A reality San didn’t think they’d ever get to live.

And now… they have babies. Plural? Maybe. They still don’t know.

After checking in, San returns to the chairs and sits beside Wooyoung. Immediately his eyes drift to Wooyoung’s belly. It’s impossible not to look. His hands are resting gently over the swell, fingers curled slightly like he’s subconsciously guarding whatever is inside.

And San can’t help the worry that flits through his brain.

He’s… big. Really big. Bigger than anyone San’s seen at twenty weeks. He’s supposed to be only halfway. Does that mean he’ll double in size? Will Wooyoung even be able to walk by then? Will he be in pain? Is this normal for hybrid pregnancies, or is San’s size just too much for him?

He knows nothing about cross-feline pregnancies. All he knows is that San is huge—genetically, instinctively—and Wooyoung is tiny. A delicate little house kitty. A cat built for sunny windowsills and soft blankets, not carrying the cubs of a panther.

San swallows hard, eyes tracing the gentle rise and fall of Wooyoung’s belly.

He’ll protect him. No matter how many babies are in there. No matter how big Wooyoung gets. No matter how scared San secretly feels.

His house kitty is small.

And he’ll keep him safe.

“Can you rub my feet when we get home?” Wooyoung murmurs, barely above a whisper, but San’s ears twitch instantly toward him. Even half-asleep and exhausted, his kitty’s complaints register like alarms in his panther instincts. Wooyoung shifts his feet a little, pressing the soles together under the chair, and San imagines how cramped they must feel inside those winter boots—tight, swollen, probably itchy. He wonders whether anyone makes pregnancy-compatible hybrid shoes. Extra-wide? Extra-soft? Something that won’t pinch the delicate pads of Wooyoung’s feet.

“I’ll do it now,” San says immediately—too immediately—and leans down with full intent of ripping off the boots right then and there in the waiting room. He actually gets his hands around the heel of Wooyoung’s shoe, tugging like the boots are an enemy to be defeated.

But he doesn’t get far before—

“Wooyoung?”

Both their heads snap up. Their ears perk in unison—San’s tall and pointed, Wooyoung’s small and rounded—instinctively alert.

San is on his feet in a second. He turns back toward Wooyoung and offers both hands to help him up. Wooyoung groans softly as he stands, a strained little sound that makes San’s protective instincts claw up his spine. Maybe the boots really are too tight. Maybe his feet hurt. Maybe everything hurts.

They really should take the boots off.

But the nurse is already holding the door open, so they follow her down the hall and into an ultrasound room. It’s standard—sterile white walls, bright overhead lighting, a patient bed with crinkling paper on top, a rolling stool, a cart with the monitor and the cold gel, and the wand they’ll use on Wooyoung’s stomach.

“Jacket and stuff off,” San says gently, already reaching for him. He removes the crocheted mushroom hat first—carefully sliding it off so he doesn’t bend Wooyoung’s ears wrong—and tucks the gloves inside the hat so nothing gets lost.

Wooyoung struggles with the jacket, his belly getting in the way of pulling the sleeves free. San steps in immediately, guiding the fabric down his arms, lifting it slightly to keep it from catching on the zipper. Once it’s off, he neatly folds it and places it on the chair beside the door.

“Sit up there, and I’ll take your boots off,” he says, nodding toward the bed.

“These don’t need to come off.” Wooyoung frowns stubbornly, ears flattening just a little.

“They do.” San’s voice stays patient, but firm in a way that brooks no argument. He’s already decided, so it’s happening. Wooyoung makes a little huff but turns toward the patient bed.

He places both hands on the edge of the bed and tries to climb up. It’s awkward—his belly throws off his balance, and his center of gravity is all wrong. He grunts, wiggling one knee up first.

San immediately steps in behind him, hands hovering at his waist, ready to catch him if he slips. The idea of Wooyoung falling—onto that huge stomach—is enough to make San’s skin prickle. He gently moves Wooyoung’s tail out of the way with one hand, lifting it so it doesn’t get pinned. Wooyoung doesn’t even flinch; he’s used to San handling his tail like it’s part of the rest of him.

Once Wooyoung is seated on the bed, the paper beneath him crinkles loudly. He starts talking to the ultrasound technician—answering questions about the pregnancy, how far along he is, whether he’s had any pain or unusual symptoms. His voice wavers somewhere between tired and polite.

San kneels immediately at his feet, loosening the laces of his boots. The moment he gets the first one off, he hears Wooyoung exhale—quiet relief, like the pressure had been too much. San places the boots neatly by the chair and rises again, stepping as close to the bed as he can.

He leans down, taking Wooyoung’s hand in both of his, thumbs brushing over his knuckles.

He wants him calm. Safe. Comfortable.

Because whatever happens next—the number of babies, the size of them, the risks—they’re in it together.

“Lift up your shirt, please,” the tech says, polite but brisk in the way people are when they’ve said the same sentence a hundred times that day. San watches every movement Wooyoung makes, unable to help himself. His little house-kitty reaches forward, fingers trembling just slightly as he gathers the hem of the sweater—San’s sweater, soft and worn and smelling like him—lifting it up over the curve of his belly. The fabric bunches just beneath his chest. It barely fits now. It makes San impossibly fond.

Wooyoung ducks his head like he’s embarrassed to be showing so much skin, but his tail is limp and trusting on the bed, so San knows he isn’t anxious—just shy.

“And just to be clear, you want to know if it’s multiples and their gender?” the tech confirms, typing something into the chart.

“Yes, both.” Wooyoung’s reply is steady, but when the tech squeezes the gel bottle, San sees his whole stomach jump. The gel lands cool and sticky under the swell of his belly—unexpected. Last time it had been warm. This must feel like a cold splash of water.

San leans in, thumb brushing Wooyoung’s knuckles, letting a low purr roll through his chest without even thinking about it. His tail tightens around their joined hands, a striped loop of reassurance.

The technician presses the wand to his skin, guiding it with practiced sweeps. The monitor flickers with shifting light and shadows. Wooyoung inhales sharply at the first bit of pressure—his belly is sensitive lately, stretched and tender—but he adjusts, eyes glued to the screen.

San doesn’t look at the screen at first. He looks at Wooyoung’s face. The tiny tense furrow in his eyebrows. The way his lips part when he’s trying not to hold his breath. The way he squeezes San’s hand every time the wand glides over a spot that must feel odd or ticklish or too cold.

“Heathy size, good heartbeats,” the tech murmurs, adjusting a knob. At those words, both San and Wooyoung’s ears shoot up, flicking forward like matching satellite dishes catching a signal.

“Baby one and baby two are pretty visible here.” Her finger taps the screen, indicating two rounded shapes that San initially mistakes for shadows. But then he sees it—two little heads tucked near each other, floating in grainy grey like moons in a cloudy sky.

San feels something swell in his chest, enormous and warm and terrifying. Two. Two kittens. Two lives. Two heartbeats his and Wooyoung created.

But then—

“Then there’s this third down here, smaller,” she continues, sliding the wand lower. Her finger traces another shape, tucked deeper, almost shy as it drifts in its pocket of amniotic fluid.

This one is unmistakably smaller. But there. Moving. Existing.

“Perfectly normal in triplets,” the tech explains. “The womb is only so big, so there has to be some compensation.”

Wooyoung’s breath stutters. His ears flatten for a moment, then spring halfway back up, like he can’t decide what emotion is hitting him.

“Three?” he whispers. It’s soft. Fragile. Disbelieving. Like the number is too big to fit in his mouth.

San feels his own knees go weak for a second. Three. Three babies. Not one, not two—Three tiny lives depending on them.

“Yes, three,” the tech confirms with a warm smile. “Three healthy babies.”

San’s grip tightens around Wooyoung’s hand. His tail uncurls from their hands and instead wraps gently around Wooyoung’s thigh, protective and instinct-driven, like his body is reacting before his mind catches up.

Wooyoung stares at the screen, eyes wide, the gel still cooling on his stomach. His free hand drifts upward, trembling, hovering over the image like he’s afraid to touch but desperate to.

“They’re… real,” he breathes. “All three of them.”

San leans in, voice low, rough with emotion.

“Yeah. They’re ours.”

“Baby one and two appear to be girls,” the technician explains gently as she moves the wand back to the two larger shapes—round little heads sitting side-by-side like they’re already whispering secrets to each other, pressed together like partners in crime. “The third is a bit harder to tell. It seems baby number three is being shy. It’s common for girls to curl in like that, but I can’t get a clear angle yet.”

San and Wooyoung both lean closer to the monitor without realizing it. The technician angles the wand lower, nudging gently, trying to coax the smallest blob into view. But the little thing just tucks deeper into the warmth of the womb, curling up like a kitten burrowing under blankets.

“Two girls and a mystery baby,” Wooyoung murmurs, sounding dazed. His gaze drops to the swell of his stomach—round, taut, visibly full. “No wonder I’m so big… they’re taking up so much room.”

Something in San’s chest melts at that—something soft and instinctive and unbearably tender. His tail tightens slightly around Wooyoung’s wrist, like he’s trying to hold him in place, to ground him.

“Unfortunately,” the technician continues, “feline children are harder to predict when it comes to inheriting the ears and tail. Those features typically develop later, so you’re welcome to schedule another scan then. That’s when we can tell for sure if they’re hybrids or human.”

“Oh my god,” Wooyoung breathes, covering his mouth with one hand. His eyes are huge, stunned, as if the concept of three is only now hitting him fully. “Three?”

“Three is perfect,” San says immediately, without even thinking. His voice is quiet but steady, almost reverent. Because it is—three feels impossibly perfect.

“I’ll print your sonogram and get you on your way,” the technician says with a smile, pulling the wand away and turning off the monitor. The screen fades from grainy grey to blank black, erasing the little shapes—but not the truth of them. The babies are still there. In Wooyoung. Three small lives. Three heartbeats.

San’s eyes go back to his mate. Wooyoung’s looking down at his own belly again with a mix of awe and dread and disbelief, like he’s staring at a ticking time bomb wrapped in his sweater.

San keeps their fingers laced, his tail still looped around them like a living bracelet, and gently leans down to tend to the gel. The technician hands him a soft towel, and San wipes carefully—slow, warm movements, trying not to let Wooyoung feel cold or exposed.

Then Wooyoung whispers, voice thin:

“How are we going to take care of three babies?”

San’s hands freeze mid-wipe. He lifts his gaze. Wooyoung’s ears have sunk flat against his hair, small and defeated-looking. His eyes are fixed on his stomach as if he’s trying to see inside it—to truly understand that three tiny hearts are beating there.

“I—We have no space for three,” he continues, barely audible. “I don’t… I don’t know how we’re supposed to do this.”

San sets the towel aside and steps closer, placing a hand gently on the side of Wooyoung’s thigh. His voice stays calm, even though his own heart is racing.

“We have our bedroom,” he says softly. “And two spare rooms. If it’s all girls, we’ll figure out a way to divide the space. If it’s two girls and a boy, the boy gets his own room. We’ll make it work. We always make it work.”

“But what about toys?” Wooyoung whispers, panic creeping in around the edges. “What about clothes? What if they need different things? What if they’re loud? What if they cry at the same time? How are we even going to keep them alive? San—” His voice cracks. Just a little. “We’ve never taken care of babies before. Not even one. Let alone three.”

San doesn’t interrupt him. He lets every fear spill out, lets Wooyoung’s shoulders hunch inward, lets the tremble run through his hands.

Then he reaches up and cups Wooyoung’s chin gently, guiding his face up.

“You don’t have to know how yet,” San murmurs. His thumb brushes the corner of Wooyoung’s mouth. “We’ll learn. Together. One step at a time.”

His tail tightens around Wooyoung’s hand again, firmer now, protective.

“And they’re already so lucky,” he adds, voice warm. “Because they get you.”

“This is all your fault.” Wooyoung sniffles, voice wobbling, but he doesn’t pull away from San’s touch. He stays right there, arms wrapped protectively around his middle, ears low. His attempt at a glare is watery at best—more pout than threat.

“It is,” San agrees immediately with a solemn nod. “...How?”

“You—You’re the one who decided to stick your stupid barbs in me and now I’m— I’m huge!” Wooyoung gestures dramatically at himself, almost offended by his own stomach. “I’m practically a planet, San. I should have my own moon!”

San bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. Thank the stars the technician has already left the room—because Wooyoung accusing him of barbed sabotage might have triggered a mandatory report or a psych consult.

“Get dressed,” San says gently, leaning forward to help tug Wooyoung’s sweater straight when it bunches awkwardly. “We’ll go home and you can yell at me later. Really get it out of your system.”

Wooyoung huffs, tail bristled in indignation as he shoves his sweater down over his belly—almost like he’s shielding the babies from their father’s crimes. He looks like a grumpy cat defending a pile of newborn kittens.

“I want a burger and a blueberry smoothie,” he announces, sniffling again as he buttons his coat with unnecessary aggression. “A big one. With fries. And maybe a second burger.”

“Whatever you want,” San says immediately. His voice softens as he leans forward, hands gently cupping Wooyoung’s cheeks—thumbs brushing under his eyes like he’s checking for more tears. He tilts Wooyoung’s face up and kisses him, slow and warm and grounding. “I love you.”

“…love you too,” Wooyoung mutters, sounding personally offended by how fond he feels.

San chuckles quietly, lifting his forehead away before lowering himself toward Wooyoung’s belly. He smooths one broad hand over the stretched fabric of the sweater, reverent, then presses his ear against the curve.

The faint thrum meets him at once—three soft, steady little rhythms beneath the layers of fabric and skin. Baby number one. Baby number two. Baby number three. All beating alongside Wooyoung’s own warm, steady heart.

“I love you too…keep growing in there…and stop kicking your momma when he’s trying to sleep.”

His arms slide around Wooyoung’s waist, careful not to squeeze, his tail curling loosely around Wooyoung’s thigh as if to mark this moment—this miracle—as his.

A simple, quiet life is all he ever wanted.

Though maybe it won’t be so quiet in the future.

“I’m hungry.”

San laughs softly against his stomach.

Maybe it’s never been that quiet.