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What was fatherhood?

Lorien hadn't known what it was. He hadn't really bothered to ask the few friends he had who were parents what it was like. Not because he didn't care—but because he hadn't thought he needed to. Parenthood always felt far away, like something for older people, more settled people, the ones with matching mugs and early bedtimes and a minivan in the driveway. Not him. He didn't have kids. Didn't think he would for a long while. Maybe never. He wasn't sure yet. But when the idea started creeping into his mind—spending his birthday not at a club or with a drink in hand, but with Yari—it had started to take root before he could stop it.

It had been a quiet thought at first, barely there. He'd been lying on the couch, scrolling through his phone one night back in May when a photo popped up: Yari in a yellow dress, drooling on a juice pouch, holding Theo's phone upside down in her lap. Lorien had saved it without thinking. And then he'd found himself wondering if Theo had plans for the summer.

More specifically—if Yari had plans for her birthday.

She was turning one on July 1. Lorien's birthday was ten days later. Two birthdays, ten days apart. It wasn't just a coincidence—it was a chance. He'd hesitated at first, hovering over his dad's contact. What would he even say? "Hey, fly across the world and bring me the baby for two weeks"? But eventually, he'd just called.

To his surprise, Theo hadn't even needed convincing. "Honestly?" his dad had said. "I think it's a great idea. You two need more time together anyway. Plus, I wouldn't mind a little vacation..."

Now, here they were. The apartment was full of baby things—half of them purchased in panic two weeks ago when Lorien realized she'd need her own setup: crib, bottles, formula, diapers, a collapsible stroller. He'd watched hours of parenting videos on YouTube, mostly hosted by impossibly cheerful moms with pastel kitchens. He had a folder on his phone labeled "Yari Survival." He was as prepared as any 25-year-old man who lived alone with a dog and a temperamental cat could be.

And yet.

Nothing quite prepares you for the moment you walk into your apartment holding a baby who is now fully your responsibility.

Koa greeted them at the door like he'd been waiting for a week straight, his tail wagging furiously and nose sniffing every inch of Yari's blanket-covered toes. She made a curious sound in her throat, like a question mark with a drool bubble attached. Bori, on the other hand, emerged from her perch on top of the bookshelf with a sharp, low growl—one paw already raised in warning. Lorien gave her a look.

"Don't start." Bori hissed anyway. Koa whimpered, ducked his head, and backed off. Lorien sighed. "We're off to a great start."

He set Yari's diaper bag down and got her out of the carrier with the kind of cautious fumbling that would've made Theo laugh. She latched her hands around the front of his shirt immediately, like a clingy little koala, and blinked up at him with big brown eyes.

"Alright," he murmured, "first things first. Food."

And water for Koa. And a check to make sure Bori hadn't knocked over her food dish again. Then diapers. Then maybe an exorcism.

He sat Yari gently in her travel playpen with a few soft toys while he shuffled into the kitchen. He wasn't exactly a chef. Most nights he ordered out or ate whatever was easy. But now he had to cook. For a baby. With preferences. And a tiny stomach. And zero patience.

He pulled out some cooked rice, mashed up some sweet potato, and then—almost out of curiosity—cut up the tiniest slivers of rinsed kimchi, barely spicy, and mixed it into the soft rice. Just a little. Just enough for taste. He remembered Theo laughing on the phone about how Yari had tried to steal a piece from his plate last month. "She's gonna grow up a spice freak," he'd said proudly. "Just like her old man." Lorien stirred the mixture and looked over at her. "If you hate this, I'll never tell him."

Feeding her was... interesting. Most of the food got on her face. Some on her tray. One piece mysteriously disappeared into her onesie. But she didn't cry. In fact, she giggled through most of it. And when she found a piece she liked, she gave a delighted little squeal that made Lorien smile in spite of himself.

"You like it?" he asked, wiping her chin. "Gotta teach you how to order like a local."

He tossed something quick together for himself—a barely passable stir-fry that he ate standing up, eyes flicking to her every few seconds. The second he looked away too long, she crawled off the mat and started heading straight for Bori's hiding spot.

"Nope!" he rushed around the table, scooped her up, and spun her away like a football. "Not today."

Yari made a noise like a deflating balloon and kicked her legs, unimpressed. "I know she looks like a stuffed toy, but she will hit you."

Koa padded into the hallway and flopped down near her crib setup. Lorien followed, holding Yari close to his chest, and took a breath. The apartment, while still home, already felt... different. Warmer. Louder. Stickier.

The crib was already assembled near his bedroom, padded with soft blankets, her seahorse plushie, and a portable sound machine that had five different settings he still didn't fully understand. He laid her down gently. She blinked up at him, sleep trying to drag her under. But she fought it. Of course she did.

He sat down on the rug beside her, a bottle in hand, and let her curl against him again. Her pacifier bobbed in and out of her mouth like a slow rhythm.

"This was a good idea," he said quietly, mostly to himself. She didn't answer. Just breathed.

"I know I joke a lot. I act like I've got it all together. But I meant it, you know. When I asked Dad to bring you. I wanted to do this. Wanted to know you better." Yari stirred a little, head pressing against his chest.

"You're about to turn one. That's a big deal. And we're gonna make it count, alright?"

She hiccuped. Then burped. He smiled and rested his chin on top of her curls.

"Okay. One day down."

Outside, the city buzzed faintly, muffled by the windows. Inside, all was soft light and slow breathing. Lorien leaned back into the couch, Yari still resting on his chest, her body warm and heavy in sleep.

And for a second, maybe for the first time that day, he felt like he really could do this.

Tomorrow, the real chaos would begin—party planning, balloons, bakery hunting, and the stare of a thousand strangers as he tried to juggle a stroller and shopping bags while Yari shrieked and launched her pacifier like a missile.

But for now... this was enough.

———

Lorien woke up with a foot in his armpit.

Not his own. Yari was starfished on the bed beside him, half her body tangled in the blanket, the other half reaching for the ceiling like she was calling down the spirit of chaos herself. Her pacifier had somehow lodged itself in the fold of his hoodie, and her tiny socks—both of them—had vanished sometime in the night.

He groaned, voice raspy. "How do you sleep like a boxer in round three?"

Yari responded by thumping one fist against his chest and making a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

It was June 29. Two days until she turned one. He had nothing.

Well—he had a crib. A few toys. Some wipes. But when it came to party supplies? Gifts? Cake? That traditional Korean doljanchi ceremony thing Theo had texted him about at midnight last night? That was all... not here.

Lorien sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes, trying to plan the day. His phone buzzed on the nightstand—another "Don't forget the thread ceremony" message from Theo, followed by a picture of Kian holding a soccer ball at his first birthday and a line of text that said Let's see what she chooses 😎.

Right.

The doljabi table.

Lorien barely remembered the details from when Theo did it with Kian. The baby's first birthday in Korea was kind of a big deal. You lay out objects—thread for long life, a pencil for intellect, a bowl of rice for prosperity, money, stethoscope, soccer ball, paintbrush—and the baby chooses one, supposedly predicting their future. Except Lorien didn't have any of that. Yet.

"Okay," he muttered, swinging his legs off the bed. "We need: balloons, streamers, gifts, cake, tiny pencils, and probably... a bottle of ibuprofen."

Yari babbled something and crawled directly across his lap toward the edge of the bed.

"Absolutely not," he said, grabbing her gently before she launched herself into the abyss. "You're lucky you're cute."

Breakfast was fast and a little messy. He fed her more rice and egg, soft and mild. She squealed when she saw the baby yogurt in the fridge and got it all over her chin and her hair. He wiped her down, got her dressed in a pale pink onesie, and took a minute to wrestle with the stroller he had bought two weeks ago but only practiced opening once.

By 10:20, they were on the way to the mall. Diaper bag? Check. Snacks? Check. Formula? Triple check. Lorien wore his most neutral hoodie, slid sunglasses over his face, and shoved a pacifier into his pocket like it was a lucky coin.

At the mall, everything went sideways immediately.

He spent ten minutes trying to find the elevator because the escalator was out of service. A woman gave him a pointed look when he couldn't figure out how to lock the stroller wheels while he picked out wrapping paper. At one point, Yari grabbed a shelf of birthday hats and pulled down a dozen before he could stop her.

A worker offered to help, clearly trying not to laugh. Lorien gave her a grateful bow, but he was flushed red to the tips of his ears.

It was only when they hit the party section that he noticed it. The glances.

A couple of older women, probably ajummas, side-eyed him as he gently rocked Yari's stroller back and forth while comparing pink number "1" banners. He heard one of them murmur, and though his Korean was fluent, he didn't need to understand the words. He knew the tone.

It wasn't malicious. Just curious. Confused. Black baby. Korean man. No ring. No explanation.

He ignored it—mostly. Just gave them a single glance. That glance. The one he inherited from his mother. The kind of look that could slice tension like thread. He didn't say anything. Didn't need to. Yari kicked her feet in the stroller and let out a loud, happy shout, oblivious. He looked back down at her.

"You're lucky you don't understand microaggressions yet," he muttered softly. Then he bought the banner and moved on.

He picked out a miniature cake from a pastel-drenched bakery near the end of the floor—one with soft cream, fruit on top, and just enough sweetness for a baby's first bite. He asked for the words Yari's 1st Birthday in both English and Korean. The baker nodded, smiling, and promised it would be ready by the evening of June 30.

Then came the doljabi items. Lorien stopped by a store that sold traditional trinkets, quietly gathering things: a small thread spool, a yellow pencil, a toy stethoscope from a pretend doctor kit, a ball, a tiny envelope with a 10,000 won bill, a paintbrush. He grabbed a white tablecloth and a few decorations.

The bag was heavy by the time he made it back to the car.

Yari had fallen asleep somewhere between the rice store and the toy aisle, and he carried her in one arm while shoving things into the trunk with the other. It wasn't smooth. At one point the stroller half-collapsed on him. He swore under his breath. But he didn't drop her. That counted. Back at home, he got to work.

He laid everything out on the table, unpacked each item with a growing sense of pride and anxiety. He set aside the doljabi objects in a small box. The cake would come tomorrow. Decorations would go up in the morning.

Then came the gifts. He hadn't planned to get much. But he couldn't help it. A dress she'd probably outgrow in two months. A soft cloth book in both Korean and English. A new stuffed animal—this time a bear in a tiny hoodie. He even bought her a small music toy shaped like a turtle that made him want to scream within ten minutes.

When Theo FaceTimed him that night, Lorien was sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by party bags and shredded tissue paper, a pacifier hanging from his hoodie string, and Yari chewing on a bow.

"Man," Theo said with a grin, "you look like you've aged five years." Lorien didn't disagree.

"Got everything?" Theo asked.

Lorien pointed to the table, where the doljabi items were lined up in a neat row. "Thread, pencil, soccer ball, money, stethoscope, paintbrush."

Theo nodded. "What do you think she'll pick?"

"She'll eat the paper and try to crawl off the table," Lorien said flatly.

Theo cracked up. "That's the spirit." They talked for a few more minutes before hanging up. Lorien gave Yari her bottle, carried her into her room, and laid her down gently. She was out cold before the lullaby even finished playing from the sound machine.

He stood in the doorway for a long moment, arms crossed, staring at her sleeping form. Just one more day until it was her birthday.

His first shot at celebrating someone else's life in a way that actually mattered. He wasn't her dad. But he was her big brother. And for now—that meant everything.