Chapter One Hundred Forty-Four: The Green-Eyed Monster in Paris
The morning light was pale and thin, filtering through the lace curtains like diluted honey. The rain had finally stopped, leaving the streets of Le Marais slick and glistening, the air fresh with the smell of wet stone and something floral I couldn't name.
I was on the floor.
Cross-legged. Surrounded by blocks. A small, determined boy on one side, a stuffed rabbit with one eye on the other, and a tower of brightly colored plastic rising between us like a monument to my complete and utter defeat.
"No, pretty aunt." Seojun's small hand caught my wrist before I could place the final block. "The blue one goes on top. Blue is the sky."
"The sky is grey today."
"The sky is always blue. The clouds are just in the way."
I stared at him.
He stared back—dark curls, rosy cheeks, eyes so bright they seemed to hold their own light. He was wearing striped pajamas with feet, the kind that made him look like a very small, very determined caterpillar.
"You're very wise," I said.
"I'm very smart."
"Humility is important."
"What's humility?"
"Never mind."
He grinned, revealing a gap where his front tooth used to be, and placed the blue block on top of the tower with a flourish.
"Ta-da!"
"Magnificent."
"You're supposed to clap."
I clapped.
He beamed.
From the kitchen, I heard the low murmur of voices—Namhyun and Hana preparing breakfast, the soft clink of dishes, the occasional burst of laughter. And another voice, lower, rougher, speaking rapid Korean into a phone.
Taehyun.
He'd been on the phone since we woke up—arranging flights, canceling appointments, coordinating with his brothers. Something about a private jet, a departure time, a list of names I didn't recognize.
I tried not to listen.
Tried not to feel the familiar ache of his absence, even when he was in the next room.
"Pretty aunt." Seojun tugged at my sleeve. "Why is your husband so grumpy?"
I blinked. "What?"
"He's always frowning." The boy scrunched up his face in an exaggerated scowl, lowering his voice to a growl. "Like this. 'Don't touch my wife. Don't look at my wife. Don't breathe near my wife.'"
I bit my lip, fighting a smile. "He's not that bad."
"He's worse." Seojun nodded sagely. "Papa says he's 'territorial.' Is that like a tiger?"
"Something like that."
"Do you like tigers?"
"I like my husband."
"Even when he's grumpy?"
"Especially when he's grumpy."
Seojun considered this, his small brow furrowed.
"That's weird," he said finally.
"Love is weird."
"I'm six. I don't know about love."
"You will."
"When?"
"Someday."
"Hmm." He picked up a red block, turning it over in his small hands. "Papa says love is when you can't imagine your life without someone. Even when they're annoying."
"That's a very good definition."
"Papa is very smart."
"So I've heard."
"Papa says you're smart too. He says you were his best student."
My chest tightened. "He's very kind."
"He says you used to argue with him in class. About forgiveness. And power. And something called 'asymmetrical dynamics.'"
"I remember."
"You do?"
"No." I smiled, small and sad. "But I feel like I do."
The tower wobbled.
Seojun's hand shot out, steadying it.
"Pretty aunt?"
"Yes?"
"Do you want to build another tower?"
"I would love to build another tower."
"Good." He dumped the blocks onto the floor between us, his small body wiggling with excitement. "This one is going to be taller. Much taller. So tall it touches the sky."
"The sky is very far."
"Then we'll build very high."
I laughed.
It was soft, surprised, the sound swallowed by the morning light and the warmth of the fire and the small, earnest boy who was determined to build a tower to the sky.
---
I didn't notice him approaching.
I was focused on the blocks—on finding the right shade of yellow, on placing it just so, on the quiet satisfaction of creating something stable in a world that kept trying to knock me down. Seojun was chattering beside me, his voice a bright, bubbling stream, his small hands a blur of motion.
"Yellow is the sun," he was saying. "The sun is very important. Without the sun, there would be no flowers. No trees. No—"
"Seojun."
The boy looked up.
Namhyun stood over us, a cup of coffee in his hands, his expression soft. "Breakfast is ready. Your mother made pancakes."
"PANCAKES!"
Seojun launched himself off the floor, his feet sliding on the polished wood, his laughter bright and uncontrollable. He raced toward the kitchen, his striped pajamas a blur of motion, his voice echoing behind him.
"PAPA MADE PANCAKES! PRETTY AUNT, PAPA MADE PANCAKES!"
I watched him go.
A smile tugged at my lips.
"You're good with him," Namhyun said.
"He's easy to be good with."
"Not everyone thinks so." He settled into the chair across from me, his coffee cradled in his hands. "He can be… intense."
"He's six."
"Intense six-year-olds are still intense."
I laughed—soft, surprised.
"I suppose that's true."
He watched me for a moment, his eyes warm, searching.
"You've changed."
"What?"
"Since I last saw you." He tilted his head, studying my face. "You were different. Sharper. Your tongue could cut glass."
"I was?"
"You were." He smiled, small and sad. "You used to argue with me in class. About everything. About forgiveness. About power. About the nature of justice in an unjust world."
"I don't remember."
"I know." He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "But I do. You were brilliant, Aish. Fiery. Uncompromising. You challenged me in ways no other student ever had."
"And now?"
"Now you're softer." He reached out, his fingers brushing my hair back from my forehead. The touch was light, fleeting—a gesture of affection, not possession. "Love has changed you."
I looked down at my hands.
"I don't remember falling in love."
"Does it matter?"
"I don't know."
"He loves you." Namhyun's voice was quiet, certain. "I've never seen anyone love the way he loves you."
"He's scared."
"Of course he's scared. He almost lost you."
"He's always scared."
"That's what love is." Namhyun set his coffee aside, leaning back in his chair. "Fear. And joy. And the desperate, foolish hope that somehow, against all odds, it will be enough."
"You sound like you're speaking from experience."
"I am." He glanced toward the kitchen, toward the sound of Hana's laughter and Seojun's bright, insistent voice. "Every day. Every moment. It's terrifying and wonderful and the best thing I've ever done."
"Loving her?"
"Loving them."
I pressed my hand to my chest, feeling the ache there.
"You're very wise," I said.
"I'm very fortunate."
He smiled.
I smiled back.
And for a moment, sitting in the warm, quiet room, surrounded by blocks and the memory of pancakes, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time.
Peace.
---
Breakfast was chaos.
Seojun had syrup in his hair. Hana was trying to wipe it out with a napkin while simultaneously cutting his pancakes into smaller pieces. Namhyun was pouring coffee, his movements efficient despite the chaos, his expression fond.
And Taehyun—
Taehyun was watching me.
From across the table. Between bites of his own breakfast. His eyes followed me as I ate, as I laughed at something Seojun said, as I reached for the butter without looking.
"Tete," I said finally. "You're staring."
"I'm observing."
"You're being creepy."
"I'm being romantic."
"You're being weird."
He set down his fork.
"Your hair is different."
"What?"
"Namhyun touched your hair." His voice was flat, controlled, but I heard the edge beneath it. The jealousy.
"Tete—"
"I saw him. In the living room. He touched your hair."
"He was just—"
"I don't care what he was just." His jaw tightened. "He touched you."
"Taehyun."
"He touched my wife."
I stared at him.
The table had gone quiet. Even Seojun had stopped chewing, his eyes wide, his fork suspended in mid-air.
"Tete," I said again, softer this time. "He was being kind."
"I don't care."
"He was saying goodbye."
"I don't care."
"He was—"
"I don't care."
I stood.
I walked around the table, my bare feet silent on the wooden floor, and stopped beside his chair. He looked up at me, his eyes dark, his jaw tight.
"Move," I said.
"What?"
"Move your chair. I want to sit on your lap."
"Angel—"
"Move."
He moved.
I sat.
The chair creaked under our combined weight, but neither of us cared. I settled against his chest, my legs draped over the arm of the chair, my arm around his neck.
"There," I said. "Now you're touching me. And I'm touching you. And everyone can see."
"Angel—"
"Namhyun touched my hair." I pressed my forehead to his. "He was being kind. He was saying goodbye. He wasn't trying to take me from you."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yes." His arms tightened around me. "But I don't like it."
"You don't have to like it. You just have to tolerate it."
"I don't tolerate well."
"I know." I kissed his cheek. "Now eat your breakfast."
"I'm not hungry."
"You're jealous."
"I'm territorial."
"Same thing."
"Romantic."
"Petty."
He laughed.
It was soft, surprised, the sound swallowed by the morning light and the warmth of his chest.
"Pretty aunt is sitting on grumpy uncle's lap," Seojun announced.
"So I see," Hana said.
"Is that allowed?"
"It's very allowed."
"Is she going to eat his pancakes?"
"I don't know. Is she?"
All eyes turned to me.
I looked at Taehyun.
He looked at me.
"Maybe," I said.
He sighed.
It was a long sigh, heavy with resignation and something softer—fondness, maybe, or the kind of exasperation that only came from loving someone impossible.
"Fine," he said. "Eat my pancakes."
"I will."
"You're impossible."
"You love it."
"I love you."
I kissed him.
Soft. Quick. A promise.
Then I ate his pancakes.
They were delicious.
---
The goodbyes took longer than I expected.
Seojun clung to my leg, his small arms wrapped around my thigh, his face pressed to my hip. "No," he said. "Pretty aunt can't leave. Pretty aunt has to stay."
"Seojun—"
"Pretty aunt has to build more towers."
"We'll build towers when I come back."
"When will you come back?"
"Soon."
"How soon?"
"Very soon."
"That's not a number."
"Seojun—"
"That's not a number, pretty aunt."
I looked at Hana.
She shrugged, smiling.
"Three months," I said. "I'll come back in three months."
"Three months is a long time."
"Three months is no time at all."
"That's what Papa said about Mama's pregnancy. And it's been forever."
"Seojun—"
"Forever, pretty aunt."
I knelt, pulling him into a hug. His small body was warm, solid, his arms tight around my neck.
"I'll miss you," I whispered.
"I'll miss you too."
"Will you write to me?"
"Yes."
"Will you draw me pictures?"
"Of towers?"
"Of anything."
"Okay." He pulled back, his eyes bright, his cheeks flushed. "I'll draw you towers. And suns. And blue skies with no clouds."
"I'll hang them on my wall."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He smiled—wide, gap-toothed, radiant.
And let me go.
---
Namhyun was waiting by the door.
His hands were in his pockets, his expression soft, his eyes warm.
"Aish."
"Namhyun."
"You take care of yourself."
"I'll try."
"And him." He nodded toward Taehyun, who was standing by the car, his back to us, his shoulders tense. "He needs you more than he'll ever admit."
"I know."
"You're good for him."
"I hope so."
He stepped forward.
His arms opened.
I walked into them.
The hug was brief—just a moment, just a breath—but it was warm. Familiar. The kind of hug that felt like coming home.
"You've changed," he said again, his voice soft in my ear. "When I last saw you, you were stubborn. Sharp-tongued. Specifically with him."
"And now?"
He pulled back, his hands on my shoulders, his eyes searching my face.
"Now you look like a lovesick fool."
I laughed.
It was soft, surprised, the sound swallowed by the morning light and the warmth of his hands.
"I am a lovesick fool."
"Is that so bad?"
"I don't know."
"Neither do I." He smiled. "But I suspect it's the best thing you'll ever be."
He released me.
Stepped back.
"Goodbye, Aish."
"Goodbye, Namhyun."
He nodded.
And I walked to the car.
---
The car was warm.
Taehyun's hand was on my thigh.
Not moving. Just resting. His thumb traced small circles on the inside of my knee, a steady, soothing rhythm that made my eyelids heavy.
"Tete?"
"Hmm."
"You're touching me."
"I'm holding you."
"I'm not going to run."
"I know."
"Then why—"
"Because I can." His hand tightened. "And because I want to. And because I spent last night terrified that I'd never be able to touch you again."
"Tete."
"Don't." His voice was soft, rough. "Just let me hold you."
I leaned my head on his shoulder.
The car wound through the streets of Paris—past the Seine, past the bookstalls, past the little café with the red awning where we'd eaten croissants and watched the city wake up.
"I'm going to miss this," I said.
"We'll come back."
"When?"
"Soon."
"I'm holding you to that."
"I know."
He pressed a kiss to my hair.
And the car carried us toward the airport.
---