Chapter One Hundred Forty-Two:The Weight of a Name I Couldn't Speak
The nausea came back.
I made it to the bathroom just in time, the soup rising in my throat, burning my esophagus. I knelt on the cold tile floor, my body heaving, my eyes streaming.
The door opened.
Hana.
"Sorry," I gasped. "I'm sorry—"
"Don't apologize." She knelt beside me, her hand on my back, her voice soft and steady. "Just breathe."
"I can't—"
"Yes, you can." Her hand moved in slow circles, warming my skin through the thin fabric of the borrowed sweater. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth."
I tried.
Failed.
Tried again.
"That's it," she said. "That's good."
"It doesn't feel good."
"It will."
"When?"
"Soon."
She helped me to my feet, guiding me to the sink, handing me a cup of water. I rinsed my mouth, spat, rinsed again. The taste of sickness lingered on my tongue, sour and stubborn.
"I'm sorry," I said again. "I ruined your floor."
"You didn't ruin anything." She pressed a cool cloth to my forehead, her touch gentle. "How long have you been sick?"
"Since yesterday. Maybe the day before. I don't remember."
"Have you seen a doctor?"
"Yes." I closed my eyes, leaning against the counter. "He took blood. We're waiting for results."
"And your husband? How is he handling it?"
I opened my eyes.
"He's scared." The words came out soft, almost a whisper. "He doesn't show it. But I can feel it. When he holds me. When he thinks I'm asleep."
"Of course he's scared." Her voice was gentle. "He loves you."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yes." I pressed my palm to my chest, over my heart. "I feel it. Even when I can't remember anything else, I feel him."
"Aish." She took my hands, her fingers warm around mine. "I need to ask you something."
"What?"
"Your symptoms. The nausea. The fatigue. The heightened emotions." She paused, her eyes searching my face. "Is it possible that you're pregnant?"
I stared at her.
"No."
"Just listen—"
"The doctor said we couldn't have children." The words came out flat, hollow. "There was an accident. Years ago. Something about—" I stopped, my jaw tightening. "I don't remember. But I know. We can't."
Hana was quiet for a moment.
"Doctors can say anything," she said finally. "But fate always has different plans."
"You don't understand."
"I understand more than you think." She pressed her hand to her own belly, to the child growing inside her. "I was told I couldn't have children. That my body was too weak. That pregnancy would be dangerous—for me and for the baby."
"And?"
"And here I am." She smiled. "Thirty-two weeks pregnant. With a healthy baby girl who kicks me awake every night at 3 AM."
"She kicks you?"
"Hard." She laughed. "She's going to be a soccer player. Or a boxer. Namhyun is very proud."
I looked down at her belly. At the round curve of it, the life growing inside.
"You're lucky," I said.
"I'm blessed." She squeezed my hands. "And so are you. Even if you don't know it yet."
The bathroom was quiet.
The rain tapped against the window, soft and steady. And somewhere, deep in my chest, something that had been sleeping began to stir.
Not hope.
But the shadow of it.
---
I was sitting on the sofa, a cup of tea warming my hands, when the door burst open.
"ANGEL!"
The cup slipped.
Tea splashed across the table, across the borrowed sweater, across the hands I lifted in a futile attempt to shield myself. But I didn't feel the heat. Didn't feel the sting.
Because he was there.
Taehyun.
His eyes were wild, his hair damp, his shirt soaked through with rain. He crossed the room in three strides, and before I could speak—before I could breathe—his arms were around me.
Pulling me up.
Pulling me close.
Pressing me against his chest like he was afraid I'd disappear.
"Tete," I gasped against his shoulder. "Tete, I can't—"
"You ran." His voice was muffled, his face buried in my hair. "You left your shoes. Your phone. Your earrings. You left everything, Angel."
"I'm sorry—"
"I thought I lost you."
"I'm sorry."
"I thought—" His voice cracked. "I thought you were gone."
I wrapped my arms around him.
His shirt was cold, wet, clinging to the hard planes of his back. His heart was pounding against my chest, fast and frantic, like a bird trapped in a cage.
"I'm here," I whispered. "I'm safe. I'm not going anywhere."
"You ran."
"I found my way back."
"To who?"
"To you."
His arms tightened.
I held on.
The room was silent.
Namhyun and Hana had disappeared—into the kitchen, maybe, or the bedroom, giving us space we didn't know we needed. Even Seojun was quiet, his small face peeking around the doorframe, his eyes wide.
"Tete."
"Angel."
"Everyone is watching."
"I don't care."
"Your reputation—"
"Burned." He pulled back just enough to look at me, his hands cupping my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. "Everything burned the moment I met you."
"That's very dramatic."
"It's very true."
I smiled.
It was small, trembling, the smile of someone who had run away and been caught and was only now beginning to understand that being caught wasn't the worst thing in the world.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"I was looking for you."
"How did you know where I was?"
"Namhyun."
"You hate Namhyun."
"I don't hate him."
"You're jealous of him."
"I'm not jealous."
"You're absolutely jealous."
His jaw tightened.
I laughed.
It was soft, surprised, the sound swallowed by the rain and the warmth of his hands on my face.
"You're impossible," he said.
"You love it."
"I love you."
He kissed me.
Not gently. Not softly. He kissed me like he was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth, the taste of my breath, the way I sighed against his lips.
When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"Everyone is still watching," I whispered.
"Let them."
"Seojun is staring."
"Let him stare."
"Tete—"
"Angel." His forehead pressed to mine. "I don't care who's watching. I don't care about my reputation. I don't care about anything but you."
"You're very dramatic."
"You're very beautiful."
"Flatterer."
"Husband."
I kissed him.
Soft. Quick. A promise.
Then I pulled back, my hand pressed to his chest, his heart still pounding beneath my palm.
"Tete."
"Angel."
"I want to go home."
"You are home."
I looked around the room—at the fire crackling in the hearth, at the rain tapping against the windows, at the boy peeking around the doorframe with his stuffed rabbit clutched to his chest.
"Not yet," I said. "But soon."
He followed my gaze.
"Taehyun." Namhyun appeared in the kitchen doorway, Hana behind him, her hand on his arm. "Why don't you stay? The storm is getting worse. It's not safe to travel."
"We can travel," Taehyun said. "We have a car—"
"You're both exhausted." Hana stepped forward, her expression firm. "And Aish needs to rest. I'm a doctor. You should listen to me."
"I don't need a doctor."
"Everyone needs a doctor."
"I have a doctor."
"Then let that doctor tell you to stay."
His jaw tightened.
I could see the war in his eyes—the need to take me home warring with the knowledge that she was right. That I was tired. That the rain was falling harder now, turning the streets into rivers, making every road a hazard.
"Tete." I tugged at his sleeve. "Let's stay."
"Angel—"
"Just for tonight." I pressed my palm to his cheek. "We'll go home tomorrow. I promise."
He stared at me.
His eyes were dark, unreadable, but beneath the darkness, I saw something soft. Something yielding.
"Fine," he said. "One night."
Hana clapped her hands. "Wonderful! I'll get the guest room ready."
"Nice sweater," Namhyun said quietly, nodding at the lavender fabric still clinging to my shoulders.
Taehyun's gaze dropped to the sweater.
"Hers," he said.
"It's my wife's."
"It's hers now."
"Tete—"
"Namhyun." Taehyun's voice was flat, cold. "Thank you for finding my wife. For bringing her inside. For keeping her safe."
"You're welcome."
"But if you ever touch her again—"
"Taehyun!"
"—I'll break your hands."
Namhyun stared at him.
Then he laughed.
It was soft, surprised, the sound of a man who had just realized he wasn't facing an enemy.
"You're welcome," he said again.
And walked away.