Chapter One Hundred Four: The Language of Confessions
I woke to warmth.
Not the distant heat of morning sun through curtains, but something closer. More intimate. A slow, deliberate exploration of lips against my neck, trailing from the curve of my shoulder to the sensitive spot just below my ear. Breath—warm, steady, achingly familiar—fanned across my skin, raising goosebumps in its wake.
"Mmm…"
The sound escaped me before I was fully conscious, a soft, involuntary hum that seemed to encourage him. His mouth curved against my throat—I felt the smile, the arrogant satisfaction of a man who knew exactly what he was doing to me.
"Good morning, Angel."
His voice was a low rumble, sleep-rough and devastating. His lips never stopped moving, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along my pulse point, tasting, savoring.
I tried to open my eyes. Failed. The pleasure was too distracting, too consuming, pulling me back toward that hazy space between waking and dreaming where nothing existed but his touch.
"Where…" My voice came out thick, slurred with sleep. "Where am I?"
A soft laugh vibrated against my skin. "In our bed. Where you belong."
I forced my eyes open, blinking against the pale morning light. The room swam into focus—familiar ceiling, familiar walls, familiar scent of sandalwood and rain that clung to everything he touched.
His.
I was in his bed.
"How did I—" I pushed at his chest, weakly, my body betraying me by leaning into him instead of away. "You were on the couch. I told you to stay on the couch."
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his dark eyes glittering with amusement and something warmer. Something softer. His hair was a mess, sticking up in every direction, and there was a pillow crease on his cheek that made him look almost boyish.
"I sleepwalk," he said, utterly shameless. "It's a medical condition. Very serious."
"You did not sleepwalk."
"How do you know? You were asleep."
"You're lying."
He leaned closer, his nose brushing mine. "I have a condition. It's called 'can't-function-without-my-wife-itis.' Very serious. Often fatal."
"You're ridiculous."
"But you didn't push me."
"Because I was unconscious."
"You curled into me."
"Instinct."
"You sighed my name."
"I did not."
He raised an eyebrow, that infuriating, beautiful smirk curving his lips. "You definitely did. Very sweetly. I wish I'd recorded it."
I shoved at his chest again, harder this time, my face burning. "You're a creepy, manipulative, sleepwalking liar, and I want a divorce."
"Too late, Angel." He caught my wrists, pinning them gently to the mattress on either side of my head. His body was a warm, solid weight over mine, not crushing, just… present. Claiming. "You're stuck with me."
"You're insufferable."
"And you're beautiful in the morning."
"I look like a disaster."
"You look like mine." He dipped his head, pressing a kiss to the corner of my mouth. "Now stop arguing and let me kiss you properly."
I opened my mouth to protest—to tell him exactly where he could put his "proper" kisses—but he didn't wait. His lips found mine, soft and slow and devastatingly thorough, and every thought in my head scattered like leaves in a storm.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"I hate you," I whispered.
"I can't just hold you?" he murmured. "Can't just breathe you in? Can't just worship the woman who owns every broken piece of me?"
"I hate you."
"I know." He kissed my forehead. "Now get up. I have plans for you."
---
The day passed in a blur of anticipation.
Taehyun was cryptic about his "plans"—just told me to dress nicely, that he was taking me somewhere special, that I should be ready by seven. Then he disappeared into his study, leaving me with a full day of nervous energy and no outlet for it.
I tried to read. Couldn't focus.
Tried to nap. Too restless.
Tried to call Sara, but her phone went straight to voicemail. London. Different time zone. Probably asleep.
By six o'clock, I was pacing the bedroom in my robe, my hair still damp from the shower, staring at my closet like it held the secrets to the universe.
I needed a dress.
Something perfect. Something that would make him forget how to breathe.
But my closet was full of the usual—soft sweaters, comfortable jeans, the kind of clothes I wore to disappear into crowds and lecture halls. Nothing special. Nothing that said look at me. Nothing that said I love you.
A knock at the door startled me.
"Come in?"
The door swung open, and I blinked.
Minho stood in the doorway, holding a garment bag in one hand and a shoe box in the other. Behind him, Junho and Jinwoo hovered, their arms full of shopping bags, their expressions a mix of mischief and barely contained excitement.
"What is all this?" I asked, stepping back as they filed into the room.
Junho grinned, dropping his bags on the bed. "We heard you have a date tonight."
"Taehyun told you?"
"Taehyun told us nothing." Jinwoo pulled a tissue-wrapped package from one of the bags, his eyes sparkling. "But we have our sources."
"Sara," I guessed.
"Sara," they confirmed in unison.
Minho unzipped the garment bag with dramatic slowness, revealing a dress that stole the breath from my lungs.
Red.
Deep, rich crimson, the color of ripe cherries and sunset and everything bold. The fabric was soft—silk, I thought, or something that felt like it—flowing and elegant, with a neckline that dipped just low enough to be intriguing, and a hem that would brush my ankles when I walked.
"It's beautiful," I breathed.
"It's you," Minho said quietly. "Bold. Unapologetic. A little dangerous."
I looked up at him, surprised by the softness in his voice.
Junho thrust the shoe box at me. "Open it."
Inside, nestled in tissue paper, were heels that matched the dress perfectly—the same deep red, with delicate straps that would wind around my ankles and a heel high enough to make me taller than I'd ever been.
"Expensive," I noted.
Junho shrugged. "We have a good jewelry fence."
"Junho!"
"Kidding! Mostly."
Jinwoo presented the last package—a small, velvet box. Inside, a clutch purse, midnight black, with a clasp that glittered like stars.
"The finishing touch," he said. "For all the things you need to carry but don't want to hold."
I looked at the three of them—these brothers who had started as strangers, then enemies, then something I still didn't have a word for. Family, maybe. Or something like it.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked, my voice softer than I intended.
Minho met my gaze, his expression unreadable. "Because he's been waiting for this. For you. For a very long time."
"Because you make him human," Junho added, his usual playfulness fading into something sincere. "And we like seeing him human."
"Because love should be celebrated," Jinwoo said. "Even when it's messy. Especially when it's messy."
I looked down at the dress, the shoes, the purse. At the evidence of their thoughtfulness, their care, their quiet acceptance of me into their strange, violent, beautiful family.
"Thank you," I whispered.
Junho clapped his hands together. "Okay! Now the important part. How are you going to confess?"
I blinked. "Confess?"
"To loving him," Minho said, as if it were obvious. "Tonight. The candlelight dinner. The perfect dress. The expensive shoes." He raised an eyebrow. "You didn't think this was just about looking pretty, did you?"
"I—" My throat tightened. "I don't know how."
Jinwoo settled onto the edge of the bed, patting the space beside him. I sat, suddenly shaky, my heart pounding against my ribs.
"Start with what you feel," he said gently. "Not what you think you should feel. What you actually feel."
"What if I don't know what I feel?"
"You know." Minho's voice was firm. Certain. "You've known for a while. You're just scared to say it."
I looked down at my hands, twisted in my lap. "What if he doesn't—"
"He does." Junho's interruption was gentle, for once. "Trust me. We've never seen him like this. Not with anyone."
"He looks at you like you hung the moon," Jinwoo added. "And the stars. And probably the whole damn galaxy."
I laughed, the sound wet and wobbly. "You're all ridiculous."
"We're your brothers-in-law," Minho corrected. "It's our job to be ridiculous. And to give you advice."
"Terrible advice," Junho said cheerfully. "Mostly."
"What kind of advice?"
Jinwoo leaned forward, his expression serious. "Don't overthink it. Love isn't about perfect words or grand gestures. It's about being honest. Even when it's scary. Especially when it's scary."
Minho nodded. "Look him in the eyes. Not the chest. Not the floor. His eyes."
"He has very distracting eyes," I murmured.
"They do." Junho sighed dramatically. "It's a family curse. But you can do it."
"Say his name," Jinwoo suggested. "Not 'Taehyun.' His full name. Kim Taehyun. It sounds different when you say it like it matters."
I swallowed, trying it silently. Kim Taehyun. It did sound different. Heavier. More real.
"Touch his face," Minho said. "He likes that. He pretends not to, but he does."
"He's touch-starved," Junho added. "Very dramatic about it too. All that 'I'm a cold-hearted kingpin' nonsense. He's a marshmallow inside. A very dangerous marshmallow."
I laughed again, the tension in my chest loosening. "What if I freeze? What if I open my mouth and nothing comes out?"
Jinwoo smiled, soft and knowing. "Then let him speak first. He's been waiting to say it for a long time."
"He has?"
"He loves you," Minho said simply. "He's just been waiting for you to be ready to hear it."
---
They left me alone to dress.
I stood before the mirror, the red silk sliding over my skin like water. The dress fit perfectly—as if it had been made for me, which it probably had been. The heels made my legs look impossibly long, and the clutch fit snugly in my hand, the clasp cool against my palm.
But it wasn't the dress that made me feel different.
It was the words.
The ones I was going to say.
The ones I had been holding back for so long.
I took a breath. Then another.
And I walked out the door.
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