Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Seven:Saranghae
I couldn't find him anywhere.
The bedroom was empty when I woke from my nap, the sheets still warm on his side, the indentation of his body pressed into the mattress like a ghost I couldn't touch. I called his name. Soft at first, then louder. No answer. The bathroom was empty. The closet was empty. The window seat where he sometimes sat to read was cold.
He was gone.
I wandered the room for a while, trailing my fingers over surfaces I didn't remember but somehow knew—the carved wood of the dresser, the cool marble of the vanity, the worn leather of the armchair by the window. Everything smelled like him. Sandalwood and something darker, something that made my chest ache.
I stopped in front of the closet.
His closet.
The doors were heavy, dark wood, warm beneath my palm. I pushed them open, and his scent wrapped around me like a second skin.
Suits, mostly. Black and grey and navy, hanging in neat rows like soldiers at attention. Shirts, white and cream and pale blue, pressed and perfect. Shoes lined up on the floor, polished to a mirror shine.
But at the end of the row, tucked between a grey sweater and a leather jacket, was a shirt.
Brown.
Soft. Worn at the collar, the fabric thin from too many washes. It didn't belong with the rest of his things—not expensive enough, not new enough, not perfect enough.
It was his.
I pulled it from the hanger and held it to my face, breathing him in. The scent was stronger here—clean and warm and achingly familiar. My eyes stung.
I don't remember you, I thought. But my body does.
I pulled off the silk pajamas I'd been wearing—the ones his mother had bought for me, the ones that felt too soft and too new—and slipped his shirt over my head.
It hung past my thighs. The sleeves swallowed my hands. The fabric was cool against my skin, then warm, then warm like him.
I padded back to the bed and climbed under the covers, pulling them up to my chin. The pillow on his side still smelled like him. I pressed my face into it and closed my eyes.
I'll wait.
I didn't mean to fall asleep.
The room was dark when I woke. Not the soft dark of evening, but the deep, heavy dark of midnight. The clock on the nightstand read 12:47. The space beside me was still empty. The sheets were cold.
But I heard him.
A soft creak of the door. The quiet pad of footsteps on the carpet. The whisper of fabric as he shrugged off his jacket.
I kept my eyes closed.
I didn't know why. Shame, maybe. Or fear. Or something else—something I couldn't name, something that made my heart race and my breath catch.
The bed dipped.
He was sitting on the edge, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him, smell the night air clinging to his clothes. He was still for a long moment—watching me, I thought, though I couldn't see.
Then his hand found my hair.
Gentle. Careful. His fingers brushed the strands back from my face, lingering at my temple, tracing the curve of my ear.
"You're beautiful," he whispered. "Even like this. Especially like this."
I felt him lean closer. Felt his breath on my cheek. Felt the brush of his lips—soft, barely there—against my forehead.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he murmured. "Lying here. Wearing my shirt. Looking like you belong."
I shifted.
Not on purpose—not at first. But my body knew what it wanted even when my mind didn't. I turned toward him, the sheet slipping, the hem of his shirt riding up my thighs. I heard his breath catch.
"Angel."
His voice was rough. Warning.
I moved again—slower this time, deliberate. I let my leg slide against the sheets, let the fabric of his shirt bunch around my hips, let my body stretch and arch like a cat waking from a long sleep.
"Angel." His hand closed around my ankle, warm and firm. "I know you're awake."
I didn't open my eyes.
"Your breathing changed," he said. "Three minutes ago. When I touched your hair."
Damn.
He knew me too well. Even now. Even like this.
I opened my eyes.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his jacket gone, his shirt untucked, his hair dark and tousled like he'd been running his hands through it. His eyes were dark, too—darker than I'd ever seen them, burning with something that made my stomach flip.
"How long have you been standing there?" I asked, my voice thick with sleep.
"Watching you?"
"Yes."
"Long enough."
His hand was still on my ankle. His thumb traced small circles on the bone, slow and hypnotic.
"You're wearing my shirt," he said.
"It smells like you."
"I noticed."
"And?"
"And what?"
"And—" I bit my lip, suddenly uncertain. "Do you like it?"
He didn't answer.
Just looked at me—at the shirt swallowing my frame, at the bare skin of my thighs, at the way my hair spread across the pillow like dark silk. His jaw tightened. His throat moved.
"Angel." His voice was low, strained. "You're testing my self-control."
"I'm not testing anything."
"You're lying."
"I'm not—"
"You're not wearing anything underneath."
I went very still.
"How do you know?"
"Because I can see." His gaze dropped, just for a moment, to the place where the fabric gaped at my collarbone. "And because I know you. You forget things, but you don't change."
My face burned.
I pressed my thighs together, suddenly aware—achingly aware—of how exposed I was. How vulnerable. How desperate I must look, lying here in his shirt, waiting for him in the dark.
"I didn't mean—" I started.
"Yes, you did."
"I forgot—"
"You never forget underwear." His hand slid up my ankle, my calf, stopping at my knee. "You're embarrassed."
"I'm not—"
"You're blushing." His thumb traced the back of my knee, featherlight. "Your heart is racing. I can feel it."
"Where?"
"Here." He pressed his palm to my chest, right over my heart. His hand was warm. Steady. "You're nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"Then what are you?"
I didn't know.
I didn't know anything—not who I was, not who he was, not why my body burned when he touched me or why my chest ached when he looked away.
But I knew I wanted him.
I knew I needed him.
And I knew—with a certainty that scared me more than anything—that I would die if he walked away.
"I missed you," I whispered.
His hand stilled.
"I missed you," I said again, louder this time. "I woke up and you were gone, and the room was cold, and I didn't know where you were. I didn't know if you were coming back."
"I always come back."
"I know." I reached for him, my fingers curling around his wrist. "But I don't remember that. I don't remember anything. All I have is now—this moment, this room, this bed. And you're here, and I'm here, and I don't want to waste it being scared."
"Angel—"
"I don't know what I'm feeling." The words tumbled out, fast and desperate. "I don't know if it's real or if it's just—just attachment, just dependency, just because you're the only familiar thing in a world that doesn't make sense. But I know—" I pressed his hand harder against my chest. "I know I love your scent. Your presence. Your cologne. Your heartbeat. Your everything."
His breath caught.
"I feel ache," I continued. "And hot. When you're near. When you touch me. When you look at me like that." I swallowed. "Is that normal?"
He stared at me.
"Tete." I used the name without thinking, the nickname slipping out like it had always been there. "You're staring instead of answering."
His hand slid from my chest to my back, his fingers splaying across the bare skin beneath his shirt. The touch was electric—warm and rough and achingly gentle.
"Normal?" His voice was rough. "No, Angel. Nothing about this is normal. Nothing about you is normal. You're a fever I can't break. A storm I can't outrun. A prayer I never learned to speak."
"Then why do you keep coming back?"
"Because I can't stay away."
His hand moved, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of my spine. I arched into his touch, a sound escaping my lips—something soft, something unfamiliar, something that made my face burn.
I realized my mistake.
I forgot—totally forgot—that I wasn't wearing anything underneath. His shirt had ridden up, bunched around my waist, and his hand was on my bare skin, warm and sure, and I could feel everything. Every ridge of his palm. Every callus on his fingers. Every place where his skin met mine.
What if he thinks I'm desperate?
The thought was a cold shock, sudden and sharp. I pressed my thighs together, embarrassed, my face burning, my heart racing.
"Angel." His voice was soft. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing—"
"You're embarrassed."
"I'm not—"
"You are." His hand stilled on my back. "Talk to me."
I couldn't.
The words were stuck in my throat, tangled with shame and want and the terrible fear that he would see me—really see me—and decide I wasn't worth the trouble.
So I kissed him.
I pulled him down, my hands fisting in his shirt, my mouth crashing against his. It was clumsy—too hard, too fast, my teeth catching his lip. But I didn't care. I needed him closer. Needed him to stop looking at me like I was something fragile.
He didn't kiss back.
I pulled away, my chest heaving, my eyes burning.
"Saranghae, Tete."
The words came out broken, desperate. A confession and a plea.
He stared at me.
His eyes were dark. His jaw was tight. His hands—one still on my back, one braced on the mattress beside my head—were trembling.
"Say it again."
"Saranghae."
"Again."
"I love you." The words were easier now, flowing like water. "I love you, Kim Taehyun. I don't remember why. I don't remember when. But I love you. My heart knows. My body knows. Every part of me knows."
"Angel—"
"I don't care if it's too fast. I don't care if I'm supposed to wait. I don't care if you think I'm confused or desperate or—"
He kissed me.
Hard. Deep. Devastating.
His hand slid into my hair, tilting my head back, and he kissed me like he was starving, like I was the only thing keeping him alive. I gasped against his mouth, my fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer.
"I love you," he said against my lips. "I love you so much it terrifies me."
"Then stop being terrified."
"I can't."
"Try."
He laughed—soft, broken, beautiful.
"I'm trying, Angel. Every day. Every moment. I'm trying."
"Try harder."
He kissed me again.
And in the dark, in his shirt, in his arms, I stopped being scared.
I was home.