Then the screens flashed to life, and the opening synth of "Run BTS" thrummed through the floor, vibrating up through the soles of your worn-out sneakers. The crowd lost its mind.

You stood in the front row, pressed between a girl crying happy tears and a man in his thirties waving an ARMY bomb like a lifeline. Your hands rested low on your belly—a habit you'd developed without noticing—feeling the weight of the life growing inside you kick gently against your palm.

The baby had been quiet all day. Almost like they knew something was coming.

On stage, seven silhouettes appeared behind a curtain of white light, and the scream that erupted from the crowd was deafening. Jimin stepped forward first, all sharp angles and honeyed grace, sending a wink toward the front row that made the girl beside you shriek into her hands.

And then—

Jungkook.

For one song. Two. Three.

You let yourself forget why you were really here.

Then the fourth song began. The slow, sultry pulse of "House of Cards" filled the arena, and everything shifted. The lights turned red, the crowd quieted to gasps and whispers, and Jungkook's voice dropped low, deep, intimate.

The baby kicked. Hard.

You gasped, fingers digging into your lower back as a slow, familiar ache bloomed—tight, rhythmic, building like a wave.

No. Not now. You'd waited nine months. You'd sold your grandmother's ring to afford this ticket. You'd flown sixteen hours against every doctor's warning.

You closed your eyes. Breathed. Counted.

The pain ebbed, and you exhaled a shaky sigh of relief.

You just had to make it to the end of the set. Then you'd find a way backstage. Find him. Tell him.

On stage, Jungkook turned toward your corner of the crowd, his eyes scanning the sea of lights. For half a heartbeat, they seemed to pause—right where you stood, hand still pressed tight against the swell of your belly.