A light swung back and forth overhead, my fingers clenching around the sink granite. I released a sullen groan, eyelids fluttering to a close before I lunged for the toilet and spewed out the remains of my lunch. After several moments of vomit-without-pause, I drew back and rested my head against the wall. Then I realized I had gotten some of the substance on my shirt, and I cried out, “Ah, son of a !”

“Somebody call me?” Namjoon poked his head in with a gnome grin, shuffling in and tossing a clean hand towel my way. I caught it breathlessly and wiped my lips. “Don’t say that, your mom is great.”

He smiled and offered a water bottle he’d been holding behind his back. I took it graciously. “Thanks, dad.” The rapper patted my head and sat beside me, watching as I hastily chugged the contents of the bottle without mercy. “You doing okay?” His voice had resorted to a deep, caring tone, and he brought the back of his hand to my forehead. “I’m not feverish,” I shooed his palm away. “This is just what happens, man.”

He displayed some type of a grimace and eyed my abdomen. “I am really, honestly grateful men do not get pregnant.” I released a short lived laugh, holding the barf in. When I calmed down enough to respond, I nudged his firm shoulder and chuckled, “careful what you say, modern technology begs to differ.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He went silent, and then rolled his head back against the wall. I watch as his eyes scanned the ceiling, mindlessly counting the dots up there, his lips parting as though he was going to say something. And he did.

“Did your friend decide a name yet?” It took me a moment to realize what he meant, my hand casually resting over my developing bump.

“No. Not yet. Not until the gender is known.” He quirked his lip, nodding understandably. Then, he shifted so he was facing me. His palm slowly outreached and hovered above my mid-section, I offering a raised eyebrow in response.

“May I?” He asked in English, his accent rolling off his tongue. It seemed like an odd request, seeing as the creature was probably no more than a parasitic growth at the time, but I drew my hand back and nodded once.

His hand was large, something I’m sure every RM stan would die at the feeling of, and definitely inviting. He comfortably rested it right on my stomach and remained silent for a few moments before a look of confusion went over his face. “I don’t feel anything,” I snorted and he moved away.

“That’s because it’s still too early. Try again in three months, then you’ll surely feel it kicking.” I went back to