Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Eight: The Octopus Wife
Morning light filtered through the curtains, pale gold and soft, painting the bedroom in shades of warmth. I woke to the familiar scent of him—sandalwood and something darker, something that made my chest ache with a sweetness I couldn't name.
His arm was around my waist. His chest was pressed to my back. His breath was warm against my neck, slow and even, the breath of a man still deep in sleep.
I didn't move.
Couldn't move.
If I moved, he might wake. If he woke, he might leave. And I couldn't bear the thought of him leaving—not yet, not now, not when I finally felt safe.
So I stayed.
I lay there, wrapped in his arms, and watched the light shift across the ceiling. I counted his breaths. Felt the rise and fall of his chest against my back. Traced the lines of his hand where it lay on my stomach, fingers loose, palm warm.
Stay, I thought. Stay, stay, stay.
He stirred.
I felt it—the subtle shift in his body, the way his arm tightened around me, the way his lips brushed the back of my neck in a kiss so soft I almost missed it.
"Morning, Angel." His voice was rough with sleep, a low rumble that vibrated through my bones.
I didn't answer.
Just pressed back against him, closer, as if I could burrow inside his skin.
He laughed—soft, warm, the sound rumbling through his chest. "You're clingy this morning."
"I'm not clingy."
"You're wrapped around me like an octopus."
"An octopus has eight arms. I only have two."
"Feels like eight."
I elbowed him—lightly, barely a nudge—and felt his laugh deepen.
"Don't leave," I whispered.
His arm tightened around me. "I'm not going anywhere."
"You always say that."
"And I always come back."
"That's not the same."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he turned me in his arms, gently, until I was facing him, until I could see his eyes—dark and soft and full of something that made my chest ache.
"Where would I go?" he asked. "You're here."
"You could go to the bathroom."
"I'll take you with me."
"Promise?"
He kissed my forehead. "Promise."
---
He kept his promise.
He carried me to the bathroom—literally carried me, my legs wrapped around his waist, my arms around his neck, my face buried in his shoulder. He set me on the counter, the marble cool against my bare thighs, and handed me my toothbrush.
"Open."
"I can brush my own teeth."
"I know." He squeezed toothpaste onto the brush. "But I want to do it."
I opened my mouth.
He brushed my teeth slowly, carefully, his eyes on mine. It was absurd—intimate and silly and somehow the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for me. When he finished, he handed me a cup of water, watched me rinse, caught my chin with his fingers and wiped a drop of toothpaste from the corner of my mouth.
"There," he said. "Perfect."
"I'm a mess."
"You're my mess."
He helped me undress—sliding his shirt over my head, his knuckles brushing my skin, his eyes never leaving mine. The bandages were gone now, the wound healed to a pink scar that still ached when I moved too fast. His fingers traced the edge of it, featherlight.
"Beautiful," he murmured.
"It's ugly."
"It's proof you survived."
He turned on the shower, tested the water, and helped me step inside. The heat was immediate, a soft steam that fogged the glass and blurred the edges of the world.
He stayed.
He washed my hair—gentle, careful, his fingers massaging my scalp until I melted against the tile. He washed my body—his hands warm and sure, never lingering, never demanding. He wrapped me in a towel and dried me with the same careful attention, patting my skin, smoothing lotion over my arms, my shoulders, my legs.
"You're spoiling me," I said.
"That's the plan."
"Why?"
He looked up at me, his hands still on my knees. "Because you deserve to be spoiled. Because I've spent too long keeping my distance. Because I'm done pretending I don't want to take care of you."
"I'm not a child."
"No. You're my wife." He stood, cupping my face in his hands. "And I'm going to treat you like the queen you are. Whether you like it or not."
I pouted.
He kissed the pout off my lips.
---
The closet was a palace of fabric and light.
He walked me through it slowly, holding up dresses and sweaters and skirts, asking my opinion on each one. I pointed at random, not really caring, more interested in the way his hands looked holding silk, the way his brow furrowed when he concentrated.
"This one?" He held up a soft lavender dress, the fabric flowing like water.
"That one."
"This one?" A cream-colored sweater, cashmere, so soft it made my eyes water.
"That one too."
"You can't wear both."
"Watch me."
He laughed—that soft, surprised laugh that made my heart flutter—and helped me dress. The sweater first, then the dress over it, the layers warm and soft and ridiculous.
"You look like a marshmallow," he said.
"A very stylish marshmallow."
"The most stylish."
He led me to the vanity and sat me down, standing behind me, his hands on my shoulders. He brushed my hair slowly, carefully, working through the tangles with a patience I didn't have.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Braiding your hair."
"You know how to braid?"
"I learned." His fingers worked through the strands, separating, weaving. "You used to let me braid your hair at night. You said it helped you sleep."
"I don't remember."
"I know." He tied the end with a ribbon—soft, pale blue, the color of the morning sky. "But your body does. You lean into my hands when I touch your hair. You sigh. You relax."
I watched him in the mirror.
His focus was absolute, his brow furrowed, his lips slightly parted. He looked like an artist working on a masterpiece, like a sculptor shaping something precious.
"There," he said, stepping back. "Perfect."
I touched the braid, felt the neat weave of it against my shoulder.
"It's beautiful."
"You're beautiful."
"You're biased."
"I'm honest."
---
Breakfast was chaos.
The kitchen was warm, filled with the smell of coffee and toast and something sweet that made my stomach rumble. Junho was at the table, his mouth full of pancake, his eyes bright with mischief. Jinwoo stood by the stove, flipping something that might have been an omelet or might have been a science experiment. Minho sat in the corner, reading a book, pretending not to notice.
And Taehyun—
Taehyun pulled out my chair, settled me at the table, and served me breakfast. Eggs. Toast. Fruit arranged in a neat little row. A glass of orange juice, freshly squeezed.
"Ooh, look at this," Junho said, watching with glee. "Hyung's being a house husband."
"Shut up," Taehyun said.
"He's feeding her. With a fork. Look, Jinwoo. He's feeding her with a fork."
"I see it."
"Should we take a picture? For posterity?"
"I'll kill you," Taehyun said pleasantly.
"You love me."
"I tolerate you. There's a difference."
Junho grinned, turning to me. "Noona, are you enjoying being treated like a princess?"
I nodded, my mouth full of toast.
"She's blushing," Junho said. "Look, she's blushing."
"I'm not blushing."
"You're absolutely blushing. It's adorable. Hyung, tell her she's adorable."
Taehyun's hand found mine under the table. "She's adorable."
"Stop," I muttered.
"She's also very red."
"Junho."
"Yes, hyung?"
"Eat your breakfast."
"I am eating my breakfast. I'm multitasking. Eating and teasing. It's a skill."
Minho turned a page of his book. "It's annoying."
"Jealousy is unbecoming, Minho."
"I'm not jealous. I'm bored."
"Then read faster."
The argument continued, but I stopped listening. Because Taehyun's thumb was tracing circles on my palm, and his eyes were on me, and the world had narrowed to the warmth of his hand and the softness of his gaze.
---
He disappeared.
One moment he was there, sitting beside me, his knee pressed to mine. The next, the chair was empty, the warmth fading, and I was alone with his brothers and their teasing and the cold remains of my breakfast.
I looked around.
The kitchen. The table. The door to the hallway, slightly ajar.
He was gone.
"Where did he go?" I asked.
Junho shrugged, his mouth full. "Business, probably. He's always got business."
"He didn't say goodbye."
"He never does."
I pushed back from the table.
"Where are you going?" Jinwoo asked.
"The library."
"Don't you want—"
"No."
I walked out before they could stop me.
---
The library was dark.
I didn't turn on the lights. Didn't need to. I knew the way—past the shelves, past the reading tables, to the window seat in the corner where the morning light used to fall. I curled up there, my knees to my chest, my arms wrapped around my legs, and stared out at the garden.
The sunflowers were blooming.
Bright and yellow and impossibly cheerful, they turned their faces toward the sun. I watched them for a long time, thinking about nothing, thinking about everything.
He left.
The thought was a stone in my chest, heavy and cold. He left, and he didn't say goodbye, and he didn't tell me where he was going, and he didn't promise to come back.
He just left.
I heard the door open.
Footsteps. Slow. Careful. The soft creak of the floorboards as he crossed the room.
I didn't turn.
"Angel."
His voice was soft. Guilty.
I didn't answer.
"I'm sorry." He stopped behind me, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him. "I didn't mean to leave without saying goodbye."
"Then why did you?"
"There was a call. An emergency. I didn't want to wake you."
"I wasn't asleep."
"You were eating."
"Same thing."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then his arms slid around me from behind, pulling me back against his chest. His face buried in my neck, his breath warm on my skin.
"I'm sorry," he said again. "I'm sorry, Angel."
I didn't move.
Didn't lean into him. Didn't pull away. Just sat there, stiff and angry and hurt, while he breathed me in.
"You left," I said.
"I came back."
"You always come back. But you always leave first."
"I know."
"I hate it."
"I know."
"I hate you."
His arms tightened around me. "I know."
I should have pushed him away. Should have stayed angry, stayed cold, stayed distant. But he was warm, and I was tired, and the sunflowers were still blooming outside the window, bright and yellow and impossibly cheerful.
"I didn't eat lunch," I said.
His breath caught.
"I wasn't hungry," I continued. "I was too busy being angry."
"Angel—"
"I'm still angry."
"I know."
"But I'm also hungry."
He turned me in his arms, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes searching my face. "Let me take you for evening snacks. There's a café—"
"I don't want to go out."
"Then I'll bring something here."
"I don't want to eat here."
"Where do you want to eat?"
I didn't answer.
Just looked at him—at the guilt in his eyes, the worry in his brow, the way his hands trembled just slightly on my shoulders.
"I want you to stop leaving," I said.
"I'll try."
"That's not good enough."
"I know." He pulled me close, his forehead pressing to mine. "I'll do better. I promise."
"Promises are just words."
"Then let me prove it."
He lifted me.
My arms went around his neck automatically, my legs wrapping around his waist, my face pressing into his shoulder. He carried me out of the library, through the hallways, past the curious eyes of his brothers, who had the decency to look away.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"To the bedroom."
"Why?"
"Because I need to make it up to you."
"You can make it up to me by not leaving."
"I'll do that too." He pushed open the bedroom door, carried me inside, laid me on the bed. "But first—"
"First what?"
He hovered over me, his weight braced on his arms, his face inches from mine.
"First, I'm going to remind you why you married me."
"I don't remember why I married you."
"Then I'll remind you."
He kissed me—soft at first, then deeper, his hand sliding into my hair, his body pressing me into the mattress.
"Taehyun—"
"Shh."
"I'm still mad—"
"I know."
"You can't just kiss me and expect me to forgive you."
"I'm not expecting anything." He kissed my jaw, my throat, the hollow of my collarbone. "I'm just reminding you."
"Reminding me of what?"
He looked up at me, his eyes dark, his lips curved in a smile that was half promise, half prayer.
"That you're mine. And I'm yours. And nothing—not business, not emergencies, not the whole damn world—is going to change that."
I should have stayed mad.
I should have pushed him away.
But he was warm, and I was tired, and his mouth was on mine, and the sunflowers were still blooming outside the window.
So I kissed him back.
And forgave him.
Just a little.