Chapter 23: The First Feeding
The hospital room settled into a post-storm calm. The adrenaline that had surged through both of us for hours began to ebb, leaving behind a deep, bone-heavy exhaustion, and beneath it, a quiet, buzzing awe. Minjoon, swaddled tight in his white blanket, slept in the clear-sided bassinet, his chest rising and falling with miniature, perfect rhythm.
I shifted, wincing at the blunt ache between my legs. "Hey," I whispered to Seungcheol, who hadn't moved from his vigil by the bassinet. "Can you hand him to me? I think it's time to try feeding him."
He moved with a new, careful purpose, as if the air around the baby was more fragile. He lifted Minjoon, so small in his hands, and placed him gently into my waiting arms. The baby rooted instinctively, his little head turning, mouth searching. With fumbling fingers, I opened the front of my gown, guided him.
He latched. A sharp, startling pull, then a steady, rhythmic suckling.
A different kind of warmth flooded me, a biochemical tide of relief and connection. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
Seungcheol sank back into the bedside chair, his eyes fixed on us. He watched the mesmerizing, intimate motion, the way Minjoon’s cheek hollowed with each draw. His expression was one of pure, unadulterated wonder. Then, a faint flush crept up his neck. He shifted in the chair, his hand moving to squeeze his own thigh, his knuckles white.
The silence stretched, filled only by Minjoon’s soft, contented sounds.
"Is it weird," Seungcheol began, his voice a low, gritty rasp in the quiet room, "that I'm strangely turned on by this?"
A laugh bubbled out of me, warm and surprised. It felt good to laugh. "I love that you are," I said, smiling down at Minjoon's head. "But just so you know, the doctor said we have to wait the full three months before we can fuck again." I looked up, arching an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on my lips. "Daddy."
The word seemed to physically strike him. His breath caught, his dark eyes widening then darkening with a heat that was entirely separate from the tenderness of moments before. He leaned forward slowly, his hand coming up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing my lower lip with a possessiveness that made my stomach flip. He smelled of sterile hospital soap and his own familiar cedar scent.
"You're going to kill me," he murmured, his voice thick. But he was smiling, a reluctant, wicked curve of his mouth. He pressed a firm, slow kiss to my forehead, then let his gaze drop back to our son, still nursing diligently. The raw want in his eyes softened, transmuted back into that reverent awe. He shook his head, as if clearing it.
"Three months," he repeated, sighing dramatically as he leaned back. "I'll mark the calendar. With a countdown clock."
"Good," I said, shifting Minjoon to my other breast. He transferred with a frustrated little grunt that made us both smile. "You'll need a project. Besides, you'll be busy. I’m going to need a lot of water bottles opened. And my pillows fluffed. And someone to remind me what sleep is."
"I can do that," he said, his tone shifting into CEO-mode, a list-making certainty. "I've already drafted a parental leave schedule. My assistant is rerouting all non-critical meetings for the next two weeks. After that, I'll work from the home office until further notice."
The architect in me, the one who’d insisted through my swelling belly that I’d be back at my drafting table in four months, felt a surge of gratitude—and a flicker of the old defiance. "Just two weeks full leave? You sure the company won't collapse without you?"
"It might," he said, utterly serious. Then he cracked a grin. "But it'll learn. This is more important." He nodded toward Minjoon. "He's the only merger I care about getting right."
We lapsed into a comfortable silence. The golden afternoon light through the blinds crept across the floor, painting stripes on the linoleum. Minjoon finished, his mouth going slack, milk-drunk and serene. Seungcheol took him, expertly burping him over his shoulder with a confidence that surprised me, before placing him back in the bassinet.
My eyes grew heavy, the exhaustion a weighted blanket. I felt Seungcheol's hand find mine, his fingers lacing through mine. He wasn't looking at his phone. He wasn't thinking about the office. He was just there, in the humming, lavender-scented room, watching our son sleep, his thumb stroking the back of my hand.
"Get some rest," he whispered. "I've got the watch."
I didn't have the energy to argue. My eyelids fluttered closed. The last thing I felt was the press of his lips against my temple, and the last thing I heard was his voice, softer than I’d ever known it.
"Sleep, my love. We made it."