Chapter Ninety-Nine: The Unfinished Word
The morning light was soft, diffused through the gauze curtains like honey dissolving in warm tea. It painted the bedroom in shades of gold and cream, chasing away the shadows of the night before. The birds outside the window were loud—obnoxiously so, as if the world had already decided to move on from the violence, from the blood, from the man still sleeping in a hospital bed.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my legs dangling over the side, my good hand picking at a loose thread on the comforter. My hair was still damp from the shower, curling at the ends, sticking to the back of my neck. The bandage on my shoulder was fresh—Taehyun had changed it himself, his fingers gentle, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the wound like he could will it closed through sheer force of will.
He emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, a towel slung low on his hips, his hair dark and wet against his forehead. Water droplets traced paths down the lines of his chest, the ridges of his stomach, the sharp V that disappeared beneath the white fabric. The bruise beneath his ribs was fading to a sickly yellow-green, a remnant of the warehouse, of the bullet he'd taken for me.
He caught me staring.
A slow, familiar smirk tugged at his lips. "See something you like, Mrs. Kim?"
I rolled my eyes, looking away. "I was admiring the architecture. Very… structural."
"The architecture." He walked toward me, each step deliberate, the towel riding lower with every movement. "You're admiring my architecture."
"Your bone structure. It's very symmetrical."
He stopped in front of me, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his skin. His hand came up, fingers brushing my chin, tilting my face toward his.
"You're blushing."
"It's warm in here."
"It's not warm in here."
"Then you're warm. You're always warm. It's a medical condition. You should see a doctor."
His thumb traced my lower lip, featherlight, and my breath caught. "I'm looking at one now. She's very distracting. Very beautiful. Very bad at hiding when she's staring."
"I wasn't staring."
"You were cataloging."
"I was not—"
He kissed me.
Soft. Brief. A punctuation mark rather than a sentence.
Then he pulled back and picked up the clothes laid out on the chair—a soft cream sweater, loose and forgiving, and a pair of dark leggings. My clothes. He'd chosen them himself.
"Arms up," he said.
I raised my good arm. He slid the sweater over my head, guiding my injured arm through the sleeve with infinite care, his fingers gentle on the bandage. The fabric settled over my shoulders, warm and soft, smelling faintly of lavender.
"See?" he murmured, smoothing the hem. "I can dress you without ogling."
"You were absolutely ogling."
"I was appreciating. There's a difference."
He knelt in front of me, the leggings in his hands. I braced my hands on his shoulders—his bare shoulders, still damp from the shower—and let him guide the fabric over my feet, up my calves, over my knees. His knuckles brushed my thighs, and my breath hitched, and he looked up at me through his lashes with that dark, knowing gaze.
"You're doing this on purpose," I accused.
"I'm helping you dress. It's a husband's duty."
"Husbands don't usually kneel to put on their wives' pants."
"This one does." He tugged the leggings into place, his hands lingering on my hips. "This one kneels for very few things. But you—" He pressed a kiss to the inside of my knee, soft and reverent. "You I would kneel for forever."
My heart was a wild thing in my chest, beating against my ribs like it wanted out. My throat was tight. My eyes burned.
"Taehyun."
"Hmm?"
"I want to tell you something."
His hands stilled on my hips. He looked up at me, his expression shifting from playful to something more serious. Attentive. Waiting.
"I…" I swallowed. The word was there, on the tip of my tongue, heavy and terrifying and so, so big. "I think… I…"
His eyes searched mine. His thumb traced small circles on my hip bone. "Yes?"
"I… lo—"
The door burst open.
"Good morning! I brought breakfast!"
Arshi swept into the room like a sunbeam, a laden tray in her hands, her face glowing with that particular radiance that pregnancy seemed to bestow. She was wearing a soft pink dress that flowed around her like water, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, her belly round and perfect beneath the fabric.
She was, impossibly, breathtaking.
Like a goddess of harvest and home, bringing offerings of eggs and toast and fresh-squeezed orange juice, utterly oblivious to the moment she had just shattered.
"Jihan said I needed to eat, and I couldn't eat alone, and I thought—" She stopped, finally taking in the scene. Taehyun, shirtless, kneeling between my legs. Me, flushed, my hands still on his shoulders. The way we froze, caught in something we hadn't meant to share.
Her eyes widened. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. "Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—I'll just—"
She turned to leave, the tray wobbling dangerously.
"No!" I scrambled off the bed, my face burning, my good hand reaching for her. "No, it's fine. We were just—he was helping me—my shoulder—"
"Of course." Arshi's smile was angelic. Innocent. Completely unconvincing. "Helping. With the dressing. While shirtless. And kneeling."
"It's a medical condition," I said weakly.
"Mm-hmm."
Behind me, Taehyun stood, utterly unashamed. He picked up a black t-shirt from the dresser and pulled it over his head, the fabric clinging to his chest, his hair still damp, his expression entirely too smug.
"Good morning, Arshi-ssi," he said, his voice warm with amusement. "Thank you for bringing breakfast. My wife was just about to say something important."
I shot him a look that promised violence.
"Was she?" Arshi set the tray on the small table by the window, her movements graceful despite her belly. "What was it?"
"Nothing." I crossed my arms, wincing as the movement pulled at my shoulder. "It was nothing. Just—I forgot. It's gone. The thought is gone."
Taehyun's smirk deepened. He walked to the table, pulling out a chair for Arshi with old-fashioned courtesy, then another for me. His hand brushed my lower back as I passed, a whisper of touch that sent electricity up my spine.
"Sit," he murmured. "Eat. You need your strength."
"For what?"
"For telling me what you were about to tell me."
I sat down hard, my face flaming. Arshi was watching us both with barely concealed delight, her hands folded over her belly, her eyes sparkling.
"You two are adorable," she said. "Like a drama. A very tense, very romantic drama."
"We're not a drama."
"You're absolutely a drama." She poured orange juice into three glasses, her movements unhurried. "Jihan and I were like that once. Before the wedding. Before everything. He was always hovering, always watching, always pretending he wasn't completely gone for me."
"Taehyun doesn't hover."
"He followed you to the bathroom."
"He was checking the exits."
"He stood outside the door for seven minutes."
I turned to Taehyun, my eyes narrowed. "You stood outside the bathroom door?"
"There was a window," he said, utterly unrepentant. "It was a security risk."
"It was a bathroom."
"Windows are windows."
Arshi laughed, the sound bright and musical, filling the room with warmth. "See? A drama. A very cute drama."
I looked down at my plate, at the eggs and toast and fresh fruit arranged with care, and felt something loosen in my chest. The fear was still there—the memory of the gunfire, the image of Victor falling, the weight of everything that had happened. But here, in this room, with this woman who glowed like sunshine and this man who knelt for me and this breakfast that tasted like normalcy, I felt something else too.
Hope.
"I'm glad you're here," I said softly, reaching across the table to touch Arshi's hand. "I'm glad you're safe."
Her eyes softened. Her fingers curled around mine. "I'm glad you're safe too. And I'm glad—" She glanced at Taehyun, then back at me. "I'm glad you have each other. This world is hard. It's easier when you're not alone."
I looked at Taehyun.
He was watching me, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were warm. Soft. Full of something I was still learning to name.
"I know," I said.
And I let my hand rest on the table, palm up, an invitation.
He took it.
His fingers laced through mine, warm and steady, and he didn't let go.
Not while we ate.
Not while Arshi told stories about Jihan's disastrous attempts at cooking.
Not while the morning light grew stronger, painting the room in gold.
Not even when I tried to pull away, embarrassed by the display.
He held on.
And I let him.
Because the word I hadn't said was still there, sitting on my tongue, waiting for the right moment.
I love you.
I would say it.
Not today, maybe. Not in front of Arshi, with her knowing smile and her glowing belly and her perfect, peaceful happiness.
But soon.
When the time was right.
When I was brave enough.
I looked at Taehyun, at the man who had stormed into my life with a gun and a smirk and changed everything, and I squeezed his hand.
He squeezed back.
And in the silence between heartbeats, I think he knew.
I think he always knew.