Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Seven: The Needle and the Promise
The hospital smelled of antiseptic and anxiety.
It was the same everywhere, I supposed—Korea, Paris, any corner of the world where sick people went to get well. The walls were white, the floors were white, the fluorescent lights hummed a low, relentless requiem that seemed to vibrate in my bones.
Taehyun's hand was warm in mine.
He hadn't let go since we walked through the doors. Not when the receptionist asked for our names. Not when the nurse led us down the long, sterile corridor. Not when we sat in the waiting room, surrounded by women with round bellies and men with nervous smiles.
His thumb traced small circles on my palm. A steady, soothing rhythm. A lie we both needed to believe.
"You're quiet," I said.
"So are you."
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
"The walls." I gestured at the endless white expanse. "They're very white. Like they're trying to erase something."
"Maybe they are."
"What?"
"The past." He turned to look at me, his eyes dark and unreadable. "The pain. The memories we'd rather forget."
"Do you have memories you'd rather forget?"
"Don't you?"
I didn't answer.
Because I didn't know. The past was a locked door, and I'd lost the key. Sometimes, I was grateful. Sometimes, I was terrified. Today, I was both.
---
The blood test was first.
The nurse called my name, and I stood on legs that felt like water. Taehyun stood with me, his hand still wrapped around mine, his body a warm, steady presence at my back.
"I can go alone," I said.
"You can." He didn't let go. "But you won't."
The room was small, the walls the same sterile white. A chair in the corner. A table with vials and needles and alcohol swabs. A woman in blue scrubs with a kind smile and steady hands.
"Which arm?" she asked.
I looked at Taehyun.
"Left," he said. "Her right shoulder is still healing."
The nurse nodded, tying the tourniquet around my bicep. The rubber bit into my skin, tight and uncomfortable. I watched her swab the inside of my elbow—cold, sharp, the smell of alcohol burning my nose.
"Close your eyes," Taehyun murmured.
"I'm not scared."
"Close your eyes anyway."
I did.
The needle pricked—a sharp, bright sting that made me flinch. His hand tightened around mine. His thumb never stopped its small, steady circles.
"Almost done," the nurse said.
I focused on his warmth. On his heartbeat, steady beneath my ear where I'd pressed my face to his chest without realizing it. On the way his free hand came up to cradle the back of my head, holding me close.
"All done."
I opened my eyes.
The vial was full—dark red, almost black, my blood pulsing inside the glass like a living thing. The nurse pressed a cotton ball to the crook of my elbow, tape over it, a small white bandage that felt like a medal.
"You did well," Taehyun said.
"I didn't do anything."
"You let them take your blood."
"That's not doing something. That's standing still."
"Sometimes," he said, "standing still is the hardest thing."
---
His turn.
The chair was the same. The needle was the same. But his hand was cold in mine, and his jaw was tight, and his eyes—his eyes were fixed on a point on the far wall, unseeing.
"Tete."
He didn't answer.
"Tete."
His hand tightened around mine.
"My turn to hold you," I said.
He looked at me.
"Close your eyes," I said.
He didn't.
The nurse tied the tourniquet. Swabbed his arm. Prepared the needle.
He watched.
I watched him watch. Saw the muscle in his jaw jump, the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the slight tremor in his hand that he couldn't hide.
"Tete."
"Angel."
"Look at me."
He did.
The needle pierced his skin.
I saw him flinch—just a fraction, just enough to know he felt it. But his eyes didn't leave mine. They stayed fixed on my face, dark and steady, drawing strength from a place I didn't know I had.
"Almost done," the nurse said.
"See?" I pressed my palm to his cheek. "You're doing it."
"I'm standing still."
"Sometimes," I said, "standing still is the hardest thing."
The nurse withdrew the needle. Pressed a cotton ball to the wound. Taped it down with a small white bandage that matched mine.
"All done."
He exhaled—a long, slow breath, like he'd been holding it for hours.
"See?" I kissed his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "You survived."
"I had you."
"You always have me."
---
The doctor was an older woman with silver hair and kind eyes. She sat behind a desk cluttered with papers and medical journals, her hands folded in her lap, her expression carefully neutral.
"The results will take three days," she said. "We're running a full panel—fertility, genetic markers, potential complications from past trauma."
"Past trauma?" I asked.
She glanced at Taehyun. A silent question.
He nodded.
"Mrs. Kim, your medical history indicates significant physical trauma. Car accidents. Gunshot wounds. Surgeries to remove bullets and repair internal damage." She paused, her voice softening. "These events can affect fertility. Not always. Not even often. But they can."
"And Mr. Kim?"
The doctor's gaze shifted to him. "The same. Your file indicates multiple injuries—some of which could impact reproductive health."
"I see," he said.
His voice was flat. Controlled.
I reached for his hand under the table.
"We'll know more in three days," the doctor continued. "Until then, I recommend rest. Good nutrition. Minimal stress." She smiled—small, reassuring. "Try to enjoy Paris. It's a beautiful city."
"It is," I said.
I squeezed his hand.
He squeezed back.
---
The streets were wet from an earlier rain, the cobblestones glistening like scattered diamonds. The sky was clearing, patches of blue breaking through the grey, and the air smelled of fresh bread and coffee and something floral I couldn't name.
We walked in silence.
His hand was in mine, his fingers loose but present. His shoulders were tense, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on some middle distance I couldn't see.
"Tete."
"Hmm?"
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"You're lying."
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
He didn't answer.
I stopped walking, tugging his hand, forcing him to stop too. The street was narrow, the buildings old, their windows thrown open to the cool spring air. A cat watched us from a windowsill, its tail flicking lazily.
"Taehyun."
He looked at me.
"Talk to me."
He was silent for a long moment.
"What if I can't?" he said finally.
"Can't what?"
"Give you children." His voice cracked. "What if the tests come back, and I'm—" He stopped, his jaw working. "Sterile. Damaged. Broken."
"You're not broken."
"You don't know that."
"I know you." I pressed my palm to his chest. "I know your heart. I know your hands. I know the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching."
"Angel—"
"What if you can't have children?" I continued. "What if I can't? What if the tests come back, and we're both—" I paused, searching for the word. "—empty?"
He closed his eyes.
"I will never leave you." I rose on my toes, my lips brushing his. "I will always love you. I will always choose you. Even if we can't have kids."
"Angel—"
"We'll adopt." I pulled back, looking up at him. "We'll adopt a dozen kids. A hundred kids. We'll fill the mansion with laughter and chaos and tiny shoes by the door."
"Angel."
"Or we won't." I shrugged. "We'll travel. We'll eat croissants in Paris and gelato in Rome and dumplings in Seoul. We'll be the cool aunt and uncle who spoil everyone else's children and then give them back."
His lips twitched. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm practical."
"You're impossible."
"You love it."
He pulled me into his arms.
Not gently. Not carefully. He pulled me close, his face burying in my hair, his arms wrapping around me like he was afraid I'd disappear.
"Stupid man," I murmured against his chest. "I will never leave you. I will always love you, choose you. Even if we can't have kids... we will adopt? It will be better."
"Better?"
"Better." I pressed a kiss to his heart. "Because we'll choose them. Not biology. Not fate. Us. We'll look at a child who needs a home, and we'll say, 'You're ours now.' And they'll be ours. Forever."
"Angel."
"And our kids will be the luckiest kids in the world." I pulled back, smiling up at him. "Because they'll have you. And I'll have you. And we'll have each other."
He stared at me.
His eyes were bright. Wet.
"Don't cry," I said.
"I'm not crying."
"You're absolutely crying."
"I have something in my eye."
"A tear?"
"An eyelash."
"Liar."
"Petty."
"Romantic."
He laughed—soft, surprised, the sound filling the narrow street like music.
"Come," I said, tugging his hand. "Let's enjoy our moments."
"What moments?"
"All of them." I laughed, bright and free, spinning in the middle of the street, my dress—his shirt—billowing around my thighs. "The sun is out. The sky is blue. We're in Paris, and we're alive, and we're together."
"Angel—"
"I want ice cream."
"You want ice cream?"
"I want ice cream." I stopped spinning, facing him. "There's a shop on the corner. I saw it. Pink awning. Little tables outside. They have pistachio and salted caramel and something called 'amour.'"
"Amour?"
"Love." I grinned. "It's probably just vanilla with red sprinkles, but I want it anyway."
"You're impossible."
"You love it."
He took my hand.
And we walked toward the ice cream.
---
The shop was small, the tables crowded, the air thick with the smell of sugar and waffle cones. We found a table near the window, our bowls of ice cream melting in the spring sun, his knee pressed to mine beneath the tiny table.
I was laughing at something he said—something about Junho and a melted credit card—when I felt it.
Eyes.
Not his.
I looked up.
Two women sat at a table across the café. Beautiful women. Elegant women. Their hair was glossy, their makeup perfect, their dresses expensive and understated. They were looking at him.
At Taehyun.
One of them smiled—slow, deliberate, her gaze trailing over his face, his shoulders, the way his shirt stretched across his chest.
The other leaned closer, whispering something behind her hand.
They laughed.
My blood heated.
"Angel?" His voice was questioning. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"You're glaring."
"I'm observing."
"At what?"
"At two women who are looking at my husband like he's a dessert they'd like to order."
His lips twitched. "Are you jealous?"
"I'm not jealous."
"You're absolutely jealous."
"I'm territorial. There's a difference."
He laughed—soft, low, the sound vibrating through the tiny table.
"Don't laugh," I hissed. "They're still looking."
"Let them look."
"They're undressing you with their eyes."
"Let them undress me."
"I'm going to—"
I stood.
I walked around the table, my bare feet—when had I taken off my shoes?—silent on the tiled floor. He watched me approach, his expression curious, amused.
I sat on his lap.
His hands came to my hips automatically, steadying me. His eyes searched my face, still laughing.
"Angel, what are you—"
I kissed his neck.
Not gently. Not sweetly. I kissed his neck like I was branding him, my lips pressing to the warm skin just below his ear, my teeth grazing, my tongue soothing.
He groaned.
"The women," I murmured against his skin. "Are they still watching?"
"I don't know."
"Look."
He looked.
Then he laughed—real this time, surprised, delighted.
"They're gone," he said.
"Good."
"They looked... startled."
"Good."
"Angel." His hands slid from my hips to my back, pulling me closer. "You're adorable when you're jealous."
"I'm not jealous."
"You just claimed me in front of two strangers."
"I was protecting what's mine."
"What's yours?"
"Your neck." I pressed another kiss to his jaw. "Your lips." Another to the corner of his mouth. "Your heart." Another to his cheek. "All of it. Mine."
"All of it?"
"All of it."
He kissed me.
Soft. Slow. A claiming of his own.
When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"Take a picture," I said.
"What?"
"A picture. A selfie." I pulled his phone from his pocket, holding it up. "We're in Paris. We're eating ice cream. We're happy."
"Are we?"
"Aren't we?"
He looked at me. At the phone. At the pink awning visible through the window behind us.
"Yes," he said. "We are."
I snapped the picture.
His smile was small—just a curve of his lips, just a softness in his eyes. But it was real. It was him.
"Another," I said.
"Angel—"
"Another."
I kissed his cheek.
Snap.
I kissed his nose.
Snap.
I kissed his lips.
Snap.
He laughed, pulling the phone from my hand. "That's enough."
"It's never enough."
"It's definitely enough." He tucked the phone back in his pocket, his hands returning to my hips. "Now eat your ice cream before it melts."
"It's already melted."
"Then order more."
"I want yours."
"Mine is melting too."
"I don't care."
He sighed.
It was a long sigh, heavy and resigned.
"Fine," he said.
He fed me a spoonful of his ice cream—salted caramel, sweet and savory, the taste of Paris on my tongue.