Chapter One Hundred Forty-Three: The Weight of What He Couldn't Say
The guest room was small, intimate, the walls papered in a soft, faded rose that seemed to glow in the dim light of the single lamp. A bed dominated the space—iron frame, white linens, pillows piled high like clouds. The fire had been lit, casting dancing shadows across the ceiling, and the rain tapped against the window in a gentle, relentless rhythm.
Taehyun stood by the door.
His shirt was still wet, clinging to his chest in dark, translucent patches. His hair was damp, curling at the nape of his neck, and his eyes—his eyes were fixed on me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
"You should change," I said.
"So should you."
"I'm wearing a borrowed sweater."
"It's hers."
"It's warm."
"It's hers."
"Tete—"
He crossed the room in three strides.
His hands found my waist, pulling me against him, and his lips found my neck—not gently, not softly, but with a desperation that spoke of hours of fear and miles of rain and the terror of almost losing me.
"Tete," I gasped.
"You ran." The words were muffled against my skin. "You left your shoes. Your phone. Your earrings. You left everything, Angel."
"I'm sorry."
"I thought I lost you."
"I'm here."
"You're here." His lips trailed up my throat, along my jaw, to the corner of my mouth. "You're here, and I'm never letting you go."
"Tete—"
"Never." He kissed me. Hard. Deep. A claiming.
I clung to him, my fingers fisting in his wet shirt, my body pressed to his. The sweater—Hana's sweater—was damp now, soaked through from his clothes, but I didn't care. Couldn't care. He was warm, and I was cold, and the world outside this room had ceased to exist.
"We're going back tomorrow," he said against my lips.
"What?"
"To Korea. We're leaving tomorrow."
I pulled back, staring at him. "Why? I didn't even see Paris properly."
"We'll come back." His hands slid from my waist to my hips, holding me close. "Later. I promise."
"Tete—"
"We're going back." His voice was firm, final. "I can't protect you here."
"You can protect me here."
"I couldn't." His jaw tightened. "You ran. You left your shoes. Your phone. Your earrings. You left everything I gave you to keep you safe."
"I'm sorry."
"I couldn't find you." His voice cracked. "If Namhyun hadn't called—if he hadn't seen you—" He stopped, his throat working.
"But he did."
"He did." His forehead pressed to mine. "And I'm grateful. But I can't rely on gratitude, Angel. I need to know you're safe."
"I am safe."
"You're not." His hands moved from my hips to my wrists, circling them gently, his thumbs brushing the delicate skin. I flinched.
He froze.
"Angel."
"I'm fine."
"You flinched." His grip loosened, but he didn't let go. "Did I hurt you?"
"No."
"You flinched."
"Tete—"
"Angel." His voice was low, dangerous. "Who did this to you?"
I looked away.
"Look at me."
I couldn't.
"Angel." His hand came up, cupping my face, turning my gaze back to his. "Who hurt you?"
"No one."
"Your wrists are bruised."
"I fell."
"You fell?"
"Yes." The lie tasted bitter on my tongue. "I was running. The cobblestones were wet. I slipped."
"Angel."
"I slipped, Tete." I pressed my palm to his chest, over his heart. "It was dark. The rain was in my eyes. I didn't see the curb."
He stared at me.
His eyes were dark, unreadable, but beneath the darkness, I saw something else. Doubt. Suspicion. The sharp, searching gaze of a man who had spent his whole life learning to recognize lies.
I looked away again.
"Tell me," he said.
"There's nothing to tell."
"Angel."
"I said there's nothing."
His jaw tightened.
He released my wrists, stepping back, running a hand through his damp hair. He paced the length of the room—once, twice, three times—his shoulders tense, his breathing sharp.
"Tete."
"Don't."
"Tete."
"Don't." He stopped, his back to me, his hands braced on the windowsill. "I can't—" He stopped, his throat working.
"Can't what?"
"I can't protect you if you won't let me."
"Let you?"
"If you won't tell me the truth." He turned, his eyes burning. "Something happened. On the street. When you were lost."
"No."
"Yes." He crossed the room, stopping before me, his hands settling on my shoulders. "I can see it in your face. In the way you flinch when I touch your wrists. In the way you won't look at me."
"Tete—"
"Who was it?"
"No one."
"Was it a man?"
I didn't answer.
"Angel." His voice was soft now, coaxing. "Was it a man?"
I nodded.
His grip tightened.
"What did he do?"
"He grabbed my arm." The words came out small, swallowed by the rain. "He tried to pull me toward him. He said—" I stopped, my throat tight.
"What did he say?"
"He said I was pretty. That he wanted to take me somewhere warm."
"Did he touch you anywhere else?"
"No. I screamed. I ran. He didn't follow."
His jaw was tight, his eyes blazing.
"Tete, don't—"
"His face." His voice was cold, controlled. "Tell me about his face. His height. His clothes. Anything."
"Tete—"
"I will find him."
"No."
"I will find him, and I will—"
"No!" I grabbed his hands, pulling them away from my shoulders. "You won't. You won't find him. You won't kill him."
"He deserves—"
"I don't care what he deserves." My voice rose. "I care about you. I care about us. I don't want you to—" I stopped, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"Angel."
"I don't want you to become a monster for me."
"I'm already a monster."
"You're not."
"I am." His voice was soft, sad. "I've always been a monster. But you—" He cupped my face in his hands. "You make me want to be better."
"Then be better." I pressed my palm to his cheek. "Don't kill him. Don't hunt him. Just—let him go."
"He'll hurt someone else."
"Maybe."
"Probably."
"Then we'll stop him. Another way. The right way."
"There is no right way in my world."
"Then make one."
He stared at me.
The fire crackled. The rain tapped against the window. And somewhere, deep in his dark, desperate eyes, I saw something shift.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Okay." His forehead pressed to mine. "I won't kill him."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Tete."
"Angel."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me." His thumbs brushed my cheeks. "Just—don't run again."
"I won't."
"I can't lose you."
"You won't."
"I can't."
"Tete." I pulled him close, my arms around his waist, my face pressed to his chest. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
His arms wrapped around me.
His face buried in my hair.
And for a long moment, there was nothing but the rain and the fire and the steady, steady beat of his heart.
---
We didn't sleep.
We lay on the bed, tangled in the white linens, his body curved around mine like a shield. His hand was on my stomach—warm, heavy, his thumb tracing slow circles on the borrowed sweater.
"Tete?"
"Hmm."
"Why is your hand on my stomach?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"I don't know," he said. "It just… aches."
"Aches?"
"Here." He pressed his palm flat against me. "It aches here. When I think about losing you. When I imagine—" He stopped, his jaw tightening.
"Imagine what?"
"Nothing."
"Tete."
"Nothing, Angel."
I turned in his arms, facing him, my hand pressed to his chest.
"You're hiding something."
"I'm not."
"Your eyes are doing that thing."
"What thing?"
"The thing where they go dark and you won't look at me."
He looked at me.
"Tell me," I said.
"Tell you what?"
"The truth. About the test results. About why you're taking me back to Korea. About why your hand is on my stomach and why your eyes are doing that thing."
He was quiet for a long moment.
"The test results were… inconclusive."
"Inconclusive?"
"They need more samples. More tests. They want us to come back when we're home."
"And my stomach?"
"Your stomach is—" He paused, his thumb still tracing slow circles. "—warm."
"Warm."
"Warm." He pulled me closer, his forehead pressing to mine. "I like it. Your warmth. Your presence. The way you feel against me."
"Tete."
"Angel."
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"You're absolutely lying."
"I'm absolutely not."
I poked his chest.
He caught my hand, pressing it to his heart.
"Do you feel that?" he asked.
"Your heartbeat?"
"My fear."
I was quiet.
"I'm scared, Angel." His voice was soft, barely a whisper. "I'm scared of losing you. I'm scared of not being enough. I'm scared that one day you'll wake up and remember everything—and you'll hate me."
"I could never hate you."
"You don't remember."
"I remember this." I pressed my palm harder against his chest. "I remember your heartbeat. The way it feels when I'm scared. The way it steadies me."
"Angel."
"I remember your hands." I traced the lines of his fingers, the calluses on his palms. "The way they feel in my hair. On my skin. Around my waist."
"Angel."
"I remember you, Tete. Even when I don't remember anything else."
He kissed me.
Soft. Slow. A promise.
The rain fell.
The fire crackled.
And in the small, rose-papered room, in the borrowed bed, in the circle of his arms, I stopped being scared.
I was home.
---
He fell asleep first.
I watched him—the way his lashes rested on his cheeks, the way his lips parted slightly, the way his hand still curved around my stomach like he was protecting something precious.
"Tete."
He didn't stir.
"Tete, I love you."
His hand tightened.
Just a little.
Just enough.
I pressed a kiss to his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.
"I love you," I whispered again. "And I don't care about the test results. Or the baby we can't have. Or the memories I've lost. I just want you."
He didn't answer.
But his hand never left my stomach.
And somewhere, deep in the ache of his palm, I felt something shift.
Not hope.
But the shadow of it.
---
Morning came soft and grey, the rain reduced to a gentle mist, the clouds thin enough to suggest the sun was trying to break through. I was still in his arms, his chest warm against my back, his breath soft on my neck.
"Tete."
"Hmm?"
"We're really going back?"
"Today."
"I didn't see the Louvre."
"We'll come back."
"The Seine at sunrise."
"We'll come back."
"The little café with the red awning."
"We'll come back, Angel."
I turned in his arms, facing him.
"Promise?"
"Promise." He kissed my forehead. "Now let's go home."
"The baby."
His hand tightened on my stomach.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing." He smiled—small, soft, the smile he only gave me. "I just—I want to go home."
"Then let's go."
He helped me dress—not in Hana's sweater, but in his shirt, the one he'd been wearing when he found me, the one that still smelled like rain and him.
"You're stealing my clothes again," he said.
"I'm borrowing."
"You're stealing."
"I'm keeping."
He laughed.
It was soft, surprised, the sound filling the small room like sunlight.
"Come," he said, taking my hand. "Let's say goodbye."
---