Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Eight: The Taste of Salt and Sorrow
The ice cream was a mistake.
I didn't realize it at first. The salted caramel had been perfect—sweet and savory, melting on my tongue like a promise. Taehyun had fed me spoonful after spoonful, his eyes soft, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth when I'd gotten cream on my lip. It had been beautiful. Romantic. The kind of moment I wanted to bottle and keep forever.
But now—
Now I was curled on the bathroom floor, my knees drawn to my chest, my forehead pressed to the cool tile. The world was spinning, slow and nauseating, and every breath I took seemed to stir the sickness coiled in my stomach.
"Angel."
His voice was soft. Worried. He knelt behind me, his hand on my back, warm and steady.
"Angel, talk to me."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
"I'm—" A wave of nausea rolled through me, cutting off the words. I pressed my hand to my mouth, breathing through my nose, willing myself not to be sick.
"It was the ice cream," he said. "You ate too fast."
"I didn't eat too fast."
"You ate half my bowl."
"You offered."
"You stole it."
"Same thing."
He sighed. It was a long sigh, heavy with exasperation and something softer—worry, maybe, or tenderness.
"Can you stand?" he asked.
"No."
"Can you try?"
"No."
"Angel—"
"I said no." I pressed my forehead harder against the tile. "Leave me here. Let me die in peace."
"You're not going to die."
"You don't know that."
"I know that you're dramatic."
"I'm not dramatic. I'm nauseous. There's a difference."
He was quiet for a moment. Then his arms slid around me, lifting me off the floor, pulling me against his chest.
"Tete—"
"Shh." He carried me to the toilet, settling me on the closed lid, his hands on my shoulders. "Just breathe."
I breathed.
The nausea didn't fade, but it settled—a low, rolling ache in my stomach that made me want to curl into a ball and never move.
"I'm never eating ice cream again," I said.
"You'll eat ice cream again."
"I won't."
"You will."
"I'm very stubborn."
"I know." He brushed the hair back from my face, his fingers lingering on my temple. "That's why I love you."
I pouted.
It was childish. I knew it was childish. But I couldn't help it. The pout was my only defense against a world that kept spinning when I wanted it to stop.
"I want to shower," I said.
"Now?"
"Now. I feel gross."
"You're not gross."
"I'm sweaty."
"You're beautiful."
"I'm sweaty and beautiful. There's a difference."
His lips twitched. "Is there?"
"Yes. Sweaty is a condition. Beautiful is a state of being."
"You're both."
"Flatterer."
He helped me stand, his arm around my waist, his body supporting mine. The bathroom was warm, steam already rising from the shower—he must have turned it on while I was dying on the floor.
"When did you—"
"You were moaning," he said. "I multitasked."
"You're very efficient."
"I'm very in love."
I leaned into him, my head on his shoulder, my eyes closed.
"The water is warm," he murmured against my hair. "I'll wash your hair. You don't have to do anything."
"Tete."
"Shh."
He undressed me slowly, carefully, his fingers gentle on the buttons of his shirt—the one I was wearing, the one that smelled like him. The fabric fell away, pooling at my feet, and I stood before him in nothing but my underwear and the small white bandage on my arm.
His gaze traveled over me—not hungry, not possessive, but soft. Reverent. Like I was something precious.
"Beautiful," he said.
"I'm pale."
"You're beautiful."
"I'm covered in scars."
"You're beautiful." He pressed a kiss to my shoulder, to the scar from the bullet I'd taken for him. "Every scar tells a story. Every story brought you back to me."
"Tete."
"Shh."
He led me into the shower.
---
The water was warm—perfectly warm, the kind of warm that seeped into your bones and melted the tension from your muscles. I leaned against the tile, my eyes closed, my body swaying with the gentle rhythm of the spray.
His hands were in my hair.
Shampoo, slick and sweet-smelling, his fingers working through the tangles with a patience I didn't have. He massaged my scalp, slow and steady, and I made a sound—something between a sigh and a moan—that made him chuckle.
"Feel good?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Your hair was tangled."
"I was running."
"Through the streets of Paris."
"Barefoot."
"In my shirt."
"Your shirt is very comfortable."
"Everything I own is comfortable."
"Everything you own smells like you."
He paused. His hands stilled in my hair.
"What?" I asked, opening my eyes.
His expression was soft. Wondering.
"You said my shirt smells like me."
"It does."
"You like that?"
"I love it." I pressed my palm to his chest, over his heart. "When you leave—when you're working, when you're on the phone, when you're in another room—I wear your shirts. I sleep on your pillow. I bury my face in your side of the bed."
"Angel—"
"Your scent makes me feel safe." I looked up at him, at the water dripping from his hair, at the steam curling around us like a veil. "Even when I can't remember anything else, I remember you. Your warmth. Your hands. The way you smell."
He kissed me.
Soft. Slow. A promise.
When he pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"Let me wash your hair," he said.
"You already washed my hair."
"Let me wash it again."
"You're very devoted to my hair."
"I'm very devoted to you."
He turned me around, my back to his chest, my head tilted back against his shoulder. The water cascaded over us, warm and soothing, and his hands were in my hair again—working the conditioner through the strands, finger-combing the tangles, smoothing and softening until my eyes drooped with pleasure.
"You're falling asleep," he murmured.
"I'm not."
"You're swaying."
"I'm relaxing."
"You're melting."
"I'm melting," I agreed. "But not asleep."
He laughed—soft, the sound vibrating through his chest. I leaned into him, my body heavy, my limbs loose, the nausea finally fading to a dull ache.
"I'm hungry," I said.
"You're always hungry."
"I didn't eat dinner."
"You ate ice cream."
"Ice cream isn't dinner."
"It was in Paris. Everything is dinner in Paris."
"No."
"Yes."
I poked his chest. "Feed me."
"I am feeding you."
"With food. Real food. Not ice cream."
"You'll throw up again."
"I won't."
"You will."
"I won't."
"You will."
I pouted.
He kissed the pout off my lips.
"I'll order room service," he said. "Soup. Bread. Something light."
"I want pasta."
"You'll throw up pasta."
"I want pasta."
"You'll—"
"I want pasta." I turned in his arms, facing him, my hands on his chest. "Alfredo. With mushrooms. And extra cheese. And—"
"Angel."
"—breadsticks. The soft kind, with garlic butter."
"You're going to be sick."
"I'm going to be happy."
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. "Pasta."
"Alfredo."
"Alfredo."
"Mushrooms."
"Mushrooms."
"Garlic breadsticks."
"Soft ones."
I grinned. "You're a good husband."
"I'm an exhausted husband."
"You're the best husband."
"I'm the only husband."
"The only one I want."
He kissed me.
Soft. Slow. A promise.
---
The room service arrived in a silver cart, the dishes covered with shiny domes that hid their contents like secrets. Taehyun signed the bill while I bounced on the bed, my legs crossed, my hands clasped in my lap.
"Pasta, pasta, pasta," I chanted.
"You're going to choke."
"I'm going to celebrate."
He lifted the dome.
The smell hit me first—rich and creamy, the scent of butter and garlic and something else, something that made my stomach lurch.
"Oh no," I whispered.
"What?"
"I'm going to be sick."
"You're not—"
I bolted for the bathroom.
He found me on the floor, my head in the toilet, my body heaving. The pasta was a memory—a cruel, taunting memory that had betrayed me before I'd even taken a bite.
"Angel."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine."
"I'm—" Another wave of nausea rolled through me, cutting off the words.
He knelt beside me, his hand on my back, his voice soft and steady.
"Breathe," he said.
"I am breathing."
"Breathe slower."
"I can't."
"Yes, you can." His hand moved in slow circles, warming my skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth."
I tried.
I failed.
I tried again.
"Good," he said. "That's good, Angel."
"It doesn't feel good."
"It will."
"When?"
"Soon."
He helped me to my feet, guiding me to the sink, handing me a cup of water. I rinsed my mouth, spat, rinsed again. The taste of sickness lingered on my tongue, sour and stubborn.
"I hate pasta," I said.
"You love pasta."
"I hate it now."
"You'll love it again tomorrow."
"Today. I hate it today."
He smiled—small, soft, the smile he gave me when I was being difficult and he loved me anyway.
"Come," he said. "Let's get you back to bed."
---
He fed me soup.
Not the pasta. Not the Alfredo or the mushrooms or the soft garlic breadsticks of my dreams. Soup. Broth, really—clear and warm and utterly, devastatingly boring.
"Open."
"I'm not hungry."
"You need to eat."
"I need to die."
"You're not going to die."
"You don't know that."
"I know that you're dramatic."
"I'm not dramatic. I'm nauseous."
He held the spoon to my lips.
I opened my mouth.
The broth was warm, salty, the taste of something familiar and comforting. I swallowed, waiting for the nausea to return, but it didn't. Just a soft, settling warmth that spread through my stomach like a promise.
"More," I said.
He fed me another spoonful. Then another. Then another.
"Good?" he asked.
"Good."
"You're not going to be sick?"
"I'm not going to be sick."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He set the bowl aside, pulling me into his arms. I curled against his chest, my head on his shoulder, my hand over his heart.
"Tete?"
"Hmm?"
"I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For ruining dinner."
"You didn't ruin dinner."
"I threw up."
"You had a sensitive stomach."
"I wanted pasta."
"You'll have pasta tomorrow."
"What if I throw up again?"
"Then I'll hold your hair back."
"What if I always throw up?"
"Then I'll always hold your hair back."
I pressed my face to his chest, breathing him in. Sandalwood and something darker, something that made my chest ache.
"I love you," I said.
"I know."
"Do you?"
"I do." His hand came up, cupping the back of my head. "I love you, Angel. Even when you're nauseous. Even when you pout. Even when you steal my shirts and run barefoot through the streets of Paris."
"Even when I'm dramatic?"
"Especially when you're dramatic."
I smiled.
It was small, tired, the smile of someone who had spent the evening throwing up and was finally, finally feeling better.