Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Five: The Spoiled Princess of Room 407
The hospital room had become my kingdom, and I was its very demanding, very bored, very dramatic queen.
Three days had passed since the shower incident. Three days of physical therapy, of bandage changes, of doctors poking and prodding and asking questions I couldn't answer. Three days of Taehyun sitting in that chair beside my bed, watching me with those dark, patient eyes, refusing to leave even when I told him to.
I was getting better.
My shoulder still ached, but the wound was healing. My head still throbbed, but the dizziness was fading. And my memory—my memory was still a blank slate, white and empty and terrifying.
But I didn't think about that.
I thought about other things.
Like how bored I was.
"Taehyun."
He looked up from his laptop, one eyebrow raised. "Yes?"
"I'm bored."
"I know. You've told me seventeen times in the last hour."
"I'm telling you again." I flopped back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. "This room is ugly. The walls are white. The sheets are white. Everything is white. I feel like I'm living inside a cloud, and not in a fun way."
"It's a hospital, Angel. It's supposed to be white."
"Well, I don't like it." I turned my head to look at him. "When can I leave?"
"The doctors said—"
"I don't care what the doctors said." I sat up, crossing my arms over my chest. "I want to go home. Wherever that is. Do we have a home? A big house? Do we live in a tower like Disney?"
He stared at me.
"A tower?"
"Yes. A tower. With a moat. And maybe a dragon." I gestured vaguely. "You seem like the type of person who would have a dragon."
"I don't have a dragon."
"Disappointing."
He set his laptop aside, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. His expression was unreadable, but I saw the corner of his mouth twitch.
"We have a house," he said. "A big house. On a hill. With a gate and guards and more security than any rational person would need."
"A hill?" My eyes widened. "Like a princess castle?"
"Like a fortress."
"Same thing." I bounced on the bed, wincing as my shoulder protested. "I want to see it. Take me there. Now."
"You're not discharged yet."
"Then discharge me."
"The doctors—"
"I'll sign whatever forms you need." I waved my hand dismissively. "I'll promise to be good. I'll take my medicine. I'll let you change my bandages. Just get me out of this room."
He was quiet for a moment.
"You're very demanding," he said finally.
"I'm your wife." I lifted my chin. "It's my job to be demanding."
"Your job?"
"Yes. I read about it. Wives are supposed to be spoiled." I paused. "Aren't you going to spoil me?"
He pinched the bridge of his nose.
I could see him counting—one, two, three—like he was trying to find patience he didn't know he had.
"Angel," he said. "You were shot. You lost a lot of blood. You were in a coma for—"
"I don't care." I flopped back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. "I'm bored. I'm tired of this room. I'm tired of these sheets. I'm tired of you sitting in that chair like a sad puppy who won't come near me."
His jaw tightened. "I'm sitting in the chair because you asked me to."
"Did I? I don't remember."
"You don't remember a lot of things."
"Then you should remind me." I looked at him, my eyes wide, my lower lip pushed out in what I hoped was a very convincing pout. "Remind me why you're my husband. Remind me why I chose you. Remind me why I should keep you."
He stared at me.
"You're impossible," he said.
"So I've been told."
He stood.
I watched him walk to the window, his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders tense. The afternoon light caught his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the dark sweep of his hair, the way his throat moved when he swallowed.
"You're not leaving this hospital until the doctors say you're ready," he said quietly. "And I'm not going to spoil you just because you're pouting."
"But I'm very good at pouting."
"I noticed."
"So it's working?"
"No."
"Liar."
He turned to face me, and there was something in his eyes—something warm and soft and achingly familiar.
"You're spoiled enough," he said. "You don't need me to make it worse."
"I disagree."
"Of course you do."
He walked back to the bed, sitting on the edge, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him.
"Ask me something else," he said.
"Something else?"
"Something other than when you can leave."
I thought for a moment.
"Do you love me?"
The question hung in the air between us, heavy and simple.
"Yes," he said. "More than anything."
"How do you know?"
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my face. His fingers lingered against my cheek, warm and gentle.
"Because when I thought I lost you—when you were in surgery, when you wouldn't wake up—I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I couldn't do anything but stand there and pray to a God I don't believe in."
"You prayed?"
"I begged." His voice cracked. "I begged for you to come back. I promised I would do anything—give up anything—if you would just open your eyes."
I pressed my hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath my palm.
"And here I am," I said softly.
"Here you are."
We stayed like that for a long moment—his hand on my face, mine on his chest, the world outside the window fading into golden afternoon light.
"Taehyun?"
"Yes?"
"I'm still bored."
He laughed.
It was the first time I'd heard him laugh—really laugh, not just that quiet, controlled sound he made when he was amused. It transformed his face, softened the sharp edges, made him look younger. Happier.
"I'll call Junho," he said. "He'll entertain you."
"Junho?"
"My brother. The loud one."
"Oh." I perked up. "He seems fun. Chaotic. My type."
His laugh faded.
"Your type?"
"Before I lost my memory," I said innocently. "I must have had good taste. All your brothers are handsome."
His jaw tightened.
"Angel."
"Yes?"
"Stop trying to make me jealous."
"Is it working?"
He didn't answer.
But his hand slid from my face to my neck, his fingers curling around the back of my head, pulling me toward him. He kissed me—soft at first, then harder, deeper, until I forgot why I was teasing him, forgot my name, forgot everything but the warmth of his mouth and the steadiness of his hands.
When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"You're very good at that," I whispered.
"I've had practice."
"With me?"
"Only with you."
I smiled.
It was small, uncertain, the smile of someone who didn't quite know how to be happy but was trying anyway.
"Tell me about our house," I said.
"Our house?"
"Yes. The big one. On the hill." I settled back against the pillows, tugging at his sleeve until he lay down beside me. "Tell me everything. The color of the walls. The shape of the windows. The way the light looks in the morning."
He was quiet for a moment.
Then: "The walls are dark. Too dark, you used to say. You wanted to paint them something softer—cream, maybe, or pale blue."
"Did you let me?"
"No."
"Bastard."
He smiled. "The windows are tall—floor to ceiling. They face east, so the morning light fills the whole room. You used to complain that it woke you up too early."
"Did I?"
"Yes. You'd hide under the blankets and tell me to close the curtains."
"Did you?"
"No. I liked watching you sleep."
I felt my cheeks warm.
"That's creepy," I said.
"It's romantic. There's a difference."
"That's what I said."
"I know. You say it a lot."
I tucked myself closer to him, my head on his chest, my fingers tracing idle patterns on his shirt.
"Is there a garden?"
"Yes."
"With flowers?"
"Lots of flowers. Roses, mostly. And lilies. And a small patch of sunflowers you planted yourself."
"I planted sunflowers?"
"You said they made you happy. That they were impossible to look at without smiling."
I pressed my lips to his chest, right over his heart.
"I want to see them."
"Soon." His arm tightened around me. "I'll take you home soon."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
I closed my eyes.
And for the first time since I'd woken up in this strange white room, the boredom faded. The fear faded. The emptiness faded.
There was only him.
And the quiet promise of home.