Six weeks. That was what the doctor had said—six weeks and Yura would be cleared. Six weeks to heal, to find herself in her changed body, to become something new. It felt impossibly long, a measure of time both cruel and necessary. Every day, Joon-ho watched her—watched her exhaustion, her moments of pride and doubt, the quiet strength she wore like armor. He'd held her as she bled, as she cried, as she laughed at nothing and everything, their daughter between them, their world forever different.
Tonight, the apartment was silent except for the low whirr of the breast pump and the hum of the night beyond the window. Yura was stretched out on their bed, hair in a messy bun, silk robe barely tied. Her breasts were swollen, full—gravity and biology making her sensitive in ways that sometimes made her whimper, sometimes made her snap. The little pump's gentle suction pulled milk from her, collecting it in clear bottles, and she watched, expression unreadable.
