Chapter One Hundred Fifty-One: The Body That Was Changing
The pancakes sat like stones in my stomach.
I'd eaten them with gusto,forkful after forkful, drowning in syrup and whipped cream, while Junho made jokes about my "bottomless pit" and Jinwoo threatened to start charging me by the bite. But now, twenty minutes later, I was curled on the sofa in the living room, a pillow pressed to my abdomen, my face buried in the cushions.
"You look green," Junho said, not unkindly.
"I'm not green."
"Your face is green."
"My face is ivory with a hint of olive undertone."
"That's green."
"That's the lighting."
"The lighting is in my head?"
"The lighting is subjective."
He opened his mouth to argue, but Minho's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Leave her alone."
"I'm just saying"
"You're just being annoying."
Minho pulled Junho away, and I was left alone with the fire and the churning in my stomach and the strange, persistent ache in my chest.
My chest.
Not the hollow ache of longing, but something else—something tender, almost bruised, as if my body was waking up in ways I didn't understand.
I pressed my hand to my sternum.
Warm. Sensitive.
"Angel." Taehyun appeared beside me, his brow furrowed, his hand reaching for my forehead. "You're pale."
"I'm always pale."
"You're paler than usual."
"That's the lighting."
"The lighting is in my head?"
"The lighting is subjective."
He didn't smile.
His hand lingered on my forehead, cool against my skin, and his eyes searched my face with that quiet intensity that made me feel seen.
"You should rest," he said.
"I am resting."
"In bed."
"The sofa is comfortable."
"The sofa is not a bed."
"The sofa is a bed-adjacent surface."
He sighed.
It was a long sigh, heavy with resignation.
"Fine," he said. "But if you need anything..."
"I'll call."
"I'm serious, Angel."
"So am I."
He kissed my forehead.
And walked away.
The bedroom was cool and dim, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. I lay on the bed, my knees drawn to my chest, the blanket pulled up to my chin. The nausea had faded to a dull ache, but my body still felt strange
sensitive, almost electric, as if every nerve was firing at once.
I needed a shower.
The thought came sudden and sharp, cutting through the haze of discomfort. I needed to wash away the sweat, the stickiness, the strange, unfamiliar weight that seemed to have settled in my belly.
My belly.
I pressed my hand to my stomach.
It was softer than I remembered. Rounder. Not much—just a hint of curve, a suggestion of something new. But it was there.
When did that happen?
I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The movement made my head spin, and I gripped the edge of the mattress, waiting for the world to steady.
Then I stood.
The bathroom was cold, the tiles slick beneath my bare feet. I turned on the shower, the water hot and steaming, and stepped inside.
The heat hit me first.
Then the pressure,the water pounding against my skin, my shoulders, my chest. My chest. The sensation was different now,sharper, more intense, as if every drop was a spark.
I pressed my palms to the tile.
My body was shivering, though the water was warm. My skin was flushed, my nipples tender, my breasts,my breasts felt heavier, fuller, as if they'd changed overnight.
"Tete."
His name came out a whisper, swallowed by the steam.
"Tete."
I closed my eyes.
The water poured over me.
I didn't hear the door open.
Didn't hear his footsteps on the tile, didn't feel the shift in the air. But suddenly, his hands were on my shoulders, warm and steady, turning me to face him.
"Angel." His voice was soft, worried. "You've been in here for an hour."
"An hour?"
"I knocked. You didn't answer."
"I didn't hear you."
"I called your name."
"I was....." I stopped, pressing my hand to my stomach. "I didn't feel well."
"You should have called me."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine." His eyes swept over me,my flushed skin, my trembling hands, the way I was holding my belly. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Angel."
"Nothing, Tete."
"Something's different."
I looked away.
"I can't explain it."
"Try."
"My body....." I pressed my hand harder against my stomach. "It feels different. Strange. Like it's not mine."
"Is it painful?"
"No. Just..." I shook my head. "I don't know."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he reached past me, turning off the water.
"Come," he said. "Let's get you dry."
He wrapped me in a towel.
Not the thin, scratchy kind I usually used, but a soft, plush one that smelled like lavender. He patted my skin dry,my arms, my shoulders, my back,his movements gentle, unhurried.
"Tete."
"Hmm."
"I've got a tummy."
His hands stilled.
"What?"
"I've got a tummy." I pressed my hand to my belly, to the soft curve that hadn't been there before. "Look. It's round. It wasn't round before."
"Angel"
"I've always had a perfect shape. Waist. Belly. Everything." My voice wobbled. "But now,now I have a tummy."
"Angel"
"A tummy, Tete. Like a potato. A small, round potato."
He stared at me.
His lips twitched.
"Are you laughing?"
"No."
"You're laughing."
"I'm not."
"You're absolutely laughing."
"I'm smiling."
"Same thing."
I smacked his chest.
He caught my wrist, pulling me against him.
"Angel," he said, his voice soft, "you don't have a potato tummy."
"I do."
"You have a beautiful tummy."
"It's round."
"It's soft."
"It's new."
"It's you." He pressed his palm to my belly, warm and gentle. "And I love it. Because it's yours."
"Tete"
"You're not a potato." He kissed my forehead. "You're my wife. And if your body is changing, it's changing for a reason."
"What reason?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"Maybe we should see a doctor."
"A doctor?"
"When we get home. A specialist." His hand lingered on my belly. "To make sure everything is okay."
"You think something's wrong?"
"I think you're perfect." His voice was soft, certain. "And I want to keep you that way."
"Tete."
"Come." He took my hand, leading me to the vanity. "Let me dry your hair."
The hair dryer was warm.
I sat on the closed toilet lid, my legs drawn up, my arms wrapped around my knees. Taehyun stood behind me, the dryer in one hand, a brush in the other, working through the tangles with a patience I didn't have.
"You're very good at this," I said.
"I've had practice."
"With me?"
"With you."
"When?"
"Mornings. Before you wake up." His voice was soft, almost shy. "I used to brush your hair while you slept. You'd sigh and lean into my hand."
"I don't remember."
"You don't have to."
"What else do you do while I'm sleeping?"
"Watch you."
"That's creepy."
"It's romantic."
"Same thing."
"Adjacent."
He set down the hair dryer.
My hair was dry now,soft, fragrant, falling in waves over my shoulders. He picked up a bottle of lotion, squeezing a small amount into his palm.
"Arms," he said.
I held out my arms.
He smoothed the lotion over my skin,my shoulders, my elbows, my wrists,his touch gentle, almost reverent.
"You've become more gentle," I said.
"Have I?"
"In Paris. After everything. You're softer. More careful."
"Maybe I'm just more scared."
"Of what?"
"Losing you." He pressed a kiss to my shoulder. "Every day. Every moment. I'm terrified."
"Tete."
"You're the only thing that matters." His voice cracked. "And I almost lost you. Twice."
"Tete."
"So I'm careful." He smoothed lotion over my hands, my fingers, the small, delicate bones of my wrists. "I'm gentle. I'm soft. Because I don't want to waste a single moment being anything else."
"Tete."
"Feet," he said.
I held out my feet.
He knelt before me.
His hands were warm, steady, as he smoothed lotion over my ankles, my arches, the tender skin between my toes. I watched him—the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks, the way his lips moved as he hummed a song I didn't recognize.
"You're too good for me," I whispered.
His hands stilled.
"What?"
"You're too good for me." My voice was soft, uncertain. "I don't deserve you."
"Angel"
"You're gentle. You're careful. You love me even when I don't remember why." I pressed my hand to his cheek. "I'm lucky to have you."
He turned his head, pressing a kiss to my palm.
"I'm the lucky one."
"Liar."
"Honest."
"Same thing."
"Adjacent."
He kissed my knee.
I smiled.
---
I was staring at my reflection.
The mirror showed a woman I almost recognized—soft hair, flushed cheeks, eyes that held a light I hadn't seen before. My lips were curved in a small, wondering smile.
I was glowing.
The thought came sudden and sure, and I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling my heart beat beneath my palm.
"I'm so lucky," I whispered. "I have him. I have them. I have a home."
"It's real."
I turned.
Taehyun stood in the doorway, his arms crossed, his expression soft.
"Tete?"
"You're glowing."
"I'm happy."
"You're beautiful."
"Flatterer."
"Husband."
I walked to him.
His arms opened.
I stepped into them.
And for a moment, the world was quiet.
"I'm hungry," I said.
"Of course you are."
"I missed lunch."
"You threw up lunch."
"Same thing."
"Adjacent."
He took my hand.
"Come," he said. "Mrs. Han made soup."
"My favorite?"
"Your favorite."
"What's my favorite?"
"You'll know when you taste it."
We walked to the door.
I was about to step into the hallway when the world tilted.
Not the gentle sway of dizziness, but a sharp, sudden vertigo—as if the floor had dropped out from beneath me. My hand slipped from his. My knees buckled.
"Angel!"
His voice was distant, muffled, as if heard through water.
"ANGEL!"
I was falling.
The walls blurred. The ceiling spun. And then-darkness.
Cool and soft.
Swallowing me whole.