Chapter One Hundred Forty-Six: The Clingy Wife and the Brothers' Roast
The mansion settled around me like a warm, familiar blanket I didn't remember owning.
The walls were dark—too dark, according to a memory I couldn't quite reach—but the fire in the hearth cast dancing shadows across the floor, and the soft glow of the lamps made the wood gleam like honey. I was curled on the largest sofa in the living room, my knees drawn to my chest, a cashmere blanket draped over my legs. Taehyun's arm was around my shoulders, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my arm.
His brothers were scattered around the room like particularly handsome, particularly chaotic furniture.
Junho was sprawled on the floor, his back against the sofa, a bowl of popcorn balanced on his stomach. Minho occupied the armchair by the window, a book open in his lap, his reading glasses perched on his nose. Jinwoo was stretched across the chaise lounge, his phone in his hands, his expression alight with mischief.
The rain tapped against the windows, soft and steady, and somewhere in the kitchen, Mrs. Han was making tea.
I should have been peaceful.
I was not peaceful.
"I'm bored," I announced.
Junho looked up from his popcorn. "You're always bored."
"I'm a very easily bored person."
"You're a very spoiled person."
"Spoiled by your brother."
"Fair point."
I shifted, turning in Taehyun's arms, pressing my face to his chest. His hand came up automatically, cupping the back of my head, his fingers threading through my hair.
"Tete."
"Hmm?"
"Why is your chest so comfortable?"
"It's a mystery."
"It's very convenient."
"I aim to please."
"You're very pleasing."
"Flatterer."
"Husband."
He kissed my forehead.
"You two are disgusting," Junho said.
"We're romantic."
"That's the same thing."
"It's not the same thing."
"It's adjacent."
I lifted my head, glaring at him. "You're just jealous."
"Of what?"
"Of our love."
"I have love."
"Your love is with your phone."
"My phone is very loving."
"Your phone is an inanimate object."
"My phone has feelings."
"Your phone has a battery."
"My phone has a soul."
"Your phone has a cracked screen."
He gasped, clutching his chest. "Low blow."
"Truth hurts."
"Truth is subjective."
"Truth is sitting on your brother's lap wearing his shirt and stealing his warmth."
Junho stared at me.
I stared back.
"She's got you there," Jinwoo said, not looking up from his phone.
"Nobody asked you."
"Nobody ever asks me. I speak anyway."
"Announcing your presence doesn't make it welcome."
"My presence is always welcome. I'm delightful."
"You're exhausting."
"I'm enchanting."
"You're—"
"Children." Minho's voice cut through the bickering, calm and unimpressed. "Behave."
Junho and Jinwoo fell silent.
I bit my lip, fighting a smile.
Minho turned a page of his book.
"Thank you, Minho," I said.
"Don't thank me." He didn't look up. "I just want to read in peace."
"You're a good brother."
"I'm an exhausted brother."
"The best kind."
He glanced at me over the top of his glasses.
"You're trouble."
"You love me."
"I tolerate you."
"Same thing."
He sighed.
It was a long sigh, heavy with resignation.
"Fine," he said. "I love you."
"Yay!"
"Don't make me say it again."
"I won't."
"You will."
"Maybe."
He sighed again.
I smiled.
---
The tea arrived.
Mrs. Han set the tray on the coffee table—a ceramic pot steaming with something that smelled like cinnamon and honey, five mismatched cups, a plate of shortbread cookies arranged in a careful spiral.
"You need to eat," she said, looking at me.
"I ate an hour ago."
"You need to eat more."
"I'm not hungry."
"You'll eat."
"Mrs. Han—"
"Eat." She pressed a cookie into my hand, her expression stern. "You're too thin. Your eyes are hollow. And you're wearing his shirt. Again."
"It's comfortable."
"It's indecent."
"It's mine now."
She sighed.
It was a sound I was beginning to recognize—the sigh of a woman who had spent decades managing impossible people and had simply added me to the list.
"Fine," she said. "But you'll eat the soup later."
"Yes, Mrs. Han."
"I'm watching you."
"I know."
She walked away.
I ate the cookie.
---
I moved.
Not far—just enough to shift from Taehyun's side to his lap. He looked down at me, one eyebrow raised, his hands settling on my hips automatically.
"Angel."
"I was cold."
"You're under a blanket."
"The blanket wasn't warm enough."
"The blanket is cashmere."
"Cashmere doesn't have a heartbeat."
His lips twitched. "Are you comparing me to a blanket?"
"I'm elevating you above a blanket."
"How generous."
"I'm a generous person."
"You're a menace."
"You love it."
He kissed my forehead.
"You two are still disgusting," Junho said.
"We're still romantic."
"Same thing."
"Adjacent."
He threw a piece of popcorn at me.
I caught it.
Ate it.
"Good aim," I said.
"I was aiming for your face."
"Then your aim is terrible."
"My aim is excellent."
"Your aim hit my hand."
"Your hand is attached to your face."
"My hand is attached to my wrist."
"Semantics."
"Anatomy."
"Pedantry."
"Accuracy."
He threw another piece of popcorn.
I caught it again.
"Beginner's luck," he muttered.
"Skill."
"Fluke."
"Talent."
"Lucky streak."
"Natural ability."
He threw a handful.
I caught two.
The rest scattered across the floor.
"Those were on the floor," I said.
"They were on the floor because you missed them."
"I didn't miss them. I prioritized."
"You prioritized what?"
"My dignity."
"You have no dignity."
"I have lots of dignity."
"You're sitting on your husband's lap wearing his shirt and eating floor popcorn."
"The popcorn wasn't on the floor."
"Some of it was."
"Some of it was on the floor of my hand."
"Your hand isn't a floor."
"My hand is a very clean floor."
"You're impossible."
"You love it."
He threw the bowl.
I ducked.
The bowl sailed over my head, arcing gracefully through the air, and landed in Minho's lap.
Minho looked down at the bowl.
Then at Junho.
Then at me.
"I'm going to kill both of you," he said.
"Worth it," Junho said.
"Absolutely worth it," I agreed.
Minho set the bowl aside.
Turned a page of his book.
"I'm calling Mother," he said.
"You wouldn't."
"Watch me."
"Minho—"
He pulled out his phone.
"Minho, no—"
"Minho yes."
He pressed a button.
The phone rang.
"Minho!" Junho lunged across the room, scrambling for the phone. "Minho, put the phone down—"
"Too late."
The phone connected.
"Minho?" His mother's voice, warm and curious. "Is something wrong?"
"Junho threw a bowl at Aish."
"I did not throw a bowl at Aish—"
"He threw a bowl at Aish," Minho repeated. "And she caught it. And ate the popcorn."
"From the floor?" His mother's voice sharpened.
"From the floor of her hand."
"That's not a thing."
"It's absolutely a thing."
"Aish, are you okay?"
I leaned toward the phone. "I'm fine, Mother. Junho is just jealous."
"Jealous of what?"
"Of my love."
"Your love?"
"With Taehyun."
"Ah." A pause. "That's understandable."
"Mother!" Junho wailed.
"He's been single for three years," his mother continued. "It's starting to concern me."
"I'm not single. I'm discerning."
"You're picky."
"I'm selective."
"Same thing."
"Adjacent."
"Junho."
"Mother."
"Come to dinner on Sunday. I'll introduce you to the Choi girl."
"The Choi girl?"
"She's very nice. Very pretty. Very—"
"Mother—"
"Sunday. Seven o'clock. Don't be late."
The line went dead.
Junho stared at his phone.
Then at Minho.
Then at me.
"I hate you," he said.
"You love me."
"I tolerate you."
"Same thing."
He threw a pillow.
I ducked.
The pillow hit Taehyun in the face.
The room went silent.
Junho's face went pale.
"Hyung—"
Taehyun caught the pillow. Held it. Looked at it. Looked at Junho.
"I'm going to kill you," he said.
"Worth it," Junho whispered.
Taehyun threw the pillow.
Junho ran.
The room erupted into chaos.
---
I watched from Taehyun's lap.
Junho was hiding behind the sofa, using Minho as a shield. Jinwoo was filming the entire thing on his phone, his laughter bright and uncontrollable. Minho was still reading his book, apparently unbothered by the chaos erupting around him.
"Minho!" Junho shrieked. "Help me!"
"You made your choices."
"I made a mistake!"
"You made a choice."
"Minho!"
"Choices have consequences."
"Minho!"
"Consequences have lessons."
"MINHO!"
"Lessons have growth."
"MINHO!"
"Growth is important."
Junho scrambled over the back of the sofa, nearly tripping over his own feet. Taehyun followed, slower, more deliberate, the predator stalking his prey.
"You can't kill me!" Junho shouted. "I'm your brother!"
"I have four brothers. I can spare one."
"Three!"
"What?"
"You have three brothers. I'm counting.
"Minho's not a brother. He's a robot."
"I'm a brother," Minho said.
"You're a robot."
"I'm a brother who is also a robot."
"That's not a thing."
"It's absolutely a thing."
"You're impossible."
"You're annoying."
"Same thing."
"Adjacent."
Junho screamed.
Taehyun pounced.
The room filled with laughter.
---
Later—much later, when the chaos had faded and the brothers had scattered to their respective corners, I lay on the sofa, my head in Taehyun's lap, his fingers in my hair.
"Tete."
"Hmm."
"Your family is insane."
"Yes."
"I love them."
"I know."
"I don't remember them."
"You don't have to."
"I want to."
"They'll wait."
"What if I never remember?"
His fingers paused.
"Then we'll make new memories."
"With them?"
"With all of us."
I pressed my face to his thigh, breathing him in.
"Tete?"
"Hmm."
"I'm glad I came home."
"Me too."
"I'm glad I ran away."
His fingers tightened.
"Don't say that."
"I'm glad I ran away," I repeated, "because I found my way back."
"Angel—"
"I found you." I looked up at him. "I found you, and I found your family, and I found a home I didn't know I was looking for."
"Angel."
"I love you."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"I do." He cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. "I love you too. More than I've ever loved anything. More than I ever thought I could."
"Even when I'm clingy?"
"Especially when you're clingy."
"Even when I steal your shirts?"
"Especially when you steal my shirts."
"Even when I eat popcorn off the floor?"
"Especially then."
I smiled.
It was small, tired, the smile of someone who had been lost and found and was finally, finally home.
"Good," I said.
"Good."
He kissed me.
Soft. Slow. A promise.
The rain tapped against the windows.
The fire crackled.
And in the warm, quiet room, in the arms of the man I loved, I closed my eyes and let myself rest.
I was home.