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Chapter Text

The sun bled out of the sky, leaving streaks of bruised purple and soft gold across the windowpanes. Inside, lamplight pooled on the honey-colored floorboards, turning the living room into a warm, bright pocket against the falling night. A rich, savory scent drifted from the kitchen where Gyeong-seok's stew bubbled on the stove, a low, comforting sound. Hyun-ju pressed the heels of her hands into the small of her back, arching away the day's tension. The baby carrier, a sleek gray contraption, sat empty on the armchair, a silent promise.

The doorbell chimed, a sharp, cheerful sound that cut through the quiet.

"They're here!" Na-yeon's voice was a happy shriek. A flash of mismatched socks and flying curly pigtails sped past the couch.

"Slow down, Na-yeon!" Hyun-ju called, a smile pulling at her lips. The warning was useless. Na-yeon already had the front door wrenched open, letting in a swirl of cool evening air.

Jun-hee stood on the threshold, a silhouette against the deepening twilight. Her hair was piled into a messy bun that looked more like an act of desperation than a style. A baby carrier was strapped across her chest, and a large tote bag, overflowing with the detritus of new motherhood, slipped determinedly from her shoulder.

"I come bearing gifts and exhaustion."

Gyeong-seok hurried from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish towel tucked into the waistband of his trousers. He caught the sliding tote bag just before it hit the floor. "Let me get that for you. You look like you've been through a battle."

"Several," Jun-hee grunted, stepping inside. She leaned into Hyun-ju for a quick, one-armed hug, her body stiff with fatigue. "And the gremlin won every single one."

Na-yeon orbited them, her feet silent on the rug, craning her neck to get a glimpse of the precious cargo. She stopped, her eyes wide with a reverence usually reserved for birthday cake.

Jun-hee saw her and her tired face softened. She crouched down, a slow, careful movement, bringing the baby to Na-yeon's eye level.

"See? I told you she was little. She's even smaller in real life."

Na-yeon peered into the carrier. A tiny face, smooth as a river stone, was nestled in the blankets. Dark wisps of hair clung to a perfectly round head. Na-yeon's breath hitched.

"She's so tiny." The words were a whisper.

"She is." Jun-hee's voice was full of a fierce, tired pride.

"Can I get you something?" Gyeong-seok bustled around them, a picture of flustered hospitality. "Water? Juice? We have that barley tea you like." He fumbled with a carton of juice, and a small splash of orange arced onto the floor. "Oh. Sorry. Clumsy."

Jun-hee laughed, a real, throaty sound that made the lines around her eyes deepen. "Don't worry about it. My entire apartment is permanently sticky now. It's a lifestyle."

Hyun-ju barely registered their exchange. Her gaze was fixed on the sleeping infant. The baby's rosebud mouth puckered, her eyelids fluttering. She was a complete, miniature person, terrifyingly fragile and utterly whole. A massive yawn stretched the baby's face, a silent 'o' that made Na-yeon gasp with pure delight.

"She's tired from all the sleeping she did today," Jun-hee said, straightening up with a groan.

Gyeong-seok gestured toward the kitchen. The stew's aroma was thicker now, a warm invitation.

"You'll stay. You need a proper meal. I made enough for an army."

Jun-hee started to shake her head, the automatic refusal of someone who feels like a burden.

"I can't, we just wanted to drop by for a minute. I still have to…"

"You can." Hyun-ju's voice was gentle but firm. She was already moving toward the dining table, pulling out a chair, grabbing another set of chopsticks from the drawer. "You will."

Jun-hee's protest died on her lips. She watched Hyun-ju set the place, and a wave of profound relief washed over her features. She gave a small, grateful nod. "Fine. But only if you let me do the dishes."

"Absolutely not," Gyeong-seok said, his tone final.

Later, with the stew simmering down to a low gurgle, they settled in the living room. Jun-hee unclipped the baby carrier and set it carefully on the overstuffed armchair. The baby's tiny fists twitched in her sleep, little starfish hands against the soft gray fabric.

Jun-hee worked the straps and buckles with practiced efficiency, lifting Ji-an out with a soft grunt. The infant was a small, warm bundle in a pale yellow sleeper. Jun-hee held her for a moment, her cheek brushing against the baby's downy head, then she turned.

"Here, take her for a minute. My back is about to stage a full-scale rebellion and secede from the rest of my body." She held the baby out toward Hyun-ju.

Hyun-ju blinked, her body freezing. She looked from Jun-hee's face to the impossibly small human being suspended between them.

"Eomma, hold her!" Na-yeon's voice was an excited command from the floor, where she was arranging a family of stuffed bears.

Hyun-ju's hands came up, palms out, a gesture of surrender. Of negation. They felt clumsy, too large, utterly unqualified for such a delicate task.

"I don't know…"

Jun-hee's expression softened, the exhaustion replaced by a deep, knowing kindness.

"You're not going to break her."

Slowly, almost fearfully, Hyun-ju extended her arms. She slid one hand under the baby's bottom, the other cradling the impossibly fragile neck and head, just like she'd seen in videos. The baby's solid warmth bloomed against her palms, a surprising, perfect weight. She drew the infant to her chest, a careful, reverent motion.

The baby's cheek brushed against her collarbone. A soft, clean scent of powder and milk and newness filled her senses. A tiny sigh escaped the baby's lips, and her head settled into the curve of Hyun-ju's shoulder as if she belonged there.

Something in Hyun-ju's chest, a knot she hadn't known she was carrying, twisted and then settled, melting away. She looked down at the peaceful face, the sweep of dark lashes against a fair cheek.

I could love you so easily. The thought arrived unbidden, a quiet, staggering truth.

For so long, she’d told herself this was a kind of love that belonged to other people, the ones who were allowed to want everything. She hadn’t dared to imagine it for herself, not really.

"Look at you. A natural." Jun-hee's voice was a low, teasing murmur, but it was edged with sincerity.

Hyun-ju could only manage a whisper, her voice thick and unfamiliar.

"She's… she's perfect."

Gyeong-seok stood in the archway to the dining room, watching them. A gentle, unguarded expression was on his face, the kind Hyun-ju rarely saw. He caught her eye and gave her a small, reassuring smile that made her heart ache.

Carefully, Hyun-ju passed the baby back to Jun-hee, her hands lingering for a moment before she let go. Together, they moved to the table, the warm smell of stew wrapping around them.

At the table, the world came back into focus. Gyeong-seok had unearthed a small, bouncy seat from a closet, a relic from Na-yeon's infancy, and the baby was now snoozing in it by Jun-hee's chair. Na-yeon sat beside her friend, sneaking peeks at the baby between bites of rice and stew.

"You have no idea," Jun-hee said, scooping up a spoonful of stew. "The first week, I was a zombie. I honestly thought I would never sleep again. I cried more than she did. And then, one morning, around four a.m., she just… smiled at me. It was probably gas, but I don't care. It felt like she knew. Like she knew I was hers."

Gyeong-seok nodded, listening with a quiet focus, his spoon paused over his bowl. Hyun-ju tried to eat, but her eyes kept drifting to the bouncer, to the rhythmic tap of Jun-hee's foot rocking it gently. The small, domestic motion felt monumental.

"I think we should have a baby, too."

Na-yeon's voice, clear and certain, dropped into the comfortable silence. The clink of chopsticks stopped. Gyeong-seok froze. Jun-hee's eyebrows shot up.

Hyun-ju managed a small, tight laugh. It felt brittle in her throat.

"Sweetheart, it's not like picking out a new toy at the store."

Na-yeon looked at her, her expression one of pure, six-year-old logic. She shrugged a small shoulder.

"Why not?"

Why not. The question echoed in the sudden quiet of the room. Hyun-ju felt a spark deep inside her, a sharp, painful ache for something she had never allowed herself to name. She looked at Gyeong-seok, but he was watching her, his expression unreadable, waiting.

No one spoke for a long moment. Even Na-yeon seemed to sense the delicate shape of the silence she had made.

After dinner, once the bowls were cleared and stacked in the sink, the rhythm of the evening slowed. Jun-hee held the baby, who was dozing fitfully in her arms now. Na-yeon had perched herself on the arm of the couch, a piece of paper on her lap, her tongue stuck out in concentration as she drew with a fistful of crayons.

Jun-hee leaned her head back against the sofa cushions, her eyes closed. "I know it's so hard," she murmured, her voice thick with a bone-deep weariness. "Some days I just sit on the floor and cry. But then she does this thing where she grabs my finger and just holds on… and it's worth everything."

She let out a tired laugh, no bitterness in it. “And to think, some idiot thought I should just make it all disappear. Like she was nothing.”

Hyun-ju watched the tiny chest rise and fall in the yellow sleeper. She remembered the solid weight of her in her arms, the scent of her skin. Her heart turned over, a slow, painful somersault. For so many years, she had built her life carefully, piece by piece, grateful for every small happiness, for the quiet love of her husband, for the bright, fierce affection of her stepdaughter. This, a baby, had always felt like a different kind of dream, one that belonged to other people. Not to her. Not really.

As if she could hear the silent hum of doubt, Jun-hee opened her eyes and looked directly at Hyun-ju.

"You'd be a good mom to a little one. You know that, right? You're already a mom."

Hyun-ju didn't answer right away. She picked at a loose thread on the sofa cushion, tracing its path. The air felt thick with unspoken things. Gyeong-seok came and sat on the coffee table opposite her, his presence a quiet anchor.

What if? What if I let myself want this? The thought was terrifying. A door opening onto a room she had always kept locked.

The quiet stretched, comfortable and deep. Finally, Jun-hee stirred, shifting the sleeping baby in her arms.

"Well, this gremlin and I should get going before we both pass out on your floor. It's a tempting offer, believe me."

She began the careful process of re-buckling the baby into the carrier, her movements slow and tender. Gyeong-seok helped her with her tote bag, zipping a pocket that had come open.

Na-yeon scrambled off the couch and wrapped her arms around Jun-hee’s waist in a tight hug. "Bye-bye, Ji-an," she whispered toward the carrier.

Jun-hee hugged her back, then straightened and looked at Hyun-ju. She leaned in close, her voice a conspiratorial whisper meant only for her.

"If you ever… think about it, for real. You know where to find me."

Hyun-ju nodded, unable to form words. They hugged, and this time it was longer, a silent acknowledgment of something shifting between them.

She stood in the doorway long after Jun-hee's car had pulled away, the red taillights shrinking into the darkness. The house was suddenly, profoundly quiet. The air, which moments ago had been filled with the energy of a new life, now felt hollowed out, empty.

Gyeong-seok started clearing away the stray crayons and stuffed bears from the living room floor, his movements methodical, giving her space.

Na-yeon came and stood beside her, holding up her drawing. It was a wobbly portrait of four figures under a giant, smiling sun. A tall one with messy hair, a smaller one with pigtails, a medium one with shoulder-length hair, and next to her, a tiny, swaddled circle.

“Look, Eomma. It’s us. And a baby.”

Hyun-ju looked down at the crayon family. Her throat was too tight to answer. A fierce, undeniable wanting rose up inside her, sharp and clear as a bell. It wasn’t an abstract wish anymore, not a someday dream. It was here, now. And for the first time in her life, she had no idea what to do with it.

She reached out, smoothing her hand over Na-yeon’s hair, feeling the soft warmth beneath her palm. The simple gesture steadied her, but only just.

“That’s beautiful, sweetheart,” she managed, her voice thin.

Na-yeon beamed, clutching the paper to her chest like a trophy. She turned and skipped off toward the kitchen, her footsteps quick and bright against the hush. The sounds of a cabinet door opening and closing drifted back to her, followed by the quiet scuff of small feet returning.

For a moment, Hyun-ju stood there alone, her hand falling back to her side. The stillness reclaimed the room, deeper than before. It reclaimed the spaces Jun-hee’s tired energy and the baby’s silent presence had filled.

Gyeong-seok moved through the living room with a gentle economy, his bear-shaped slippers whispering on the wood floor. He bent to retrieve a stray yellow crayon from beneath the coffee table and dropped it into one of Na-yeon’s woven baskets, the soft clatter barely disturbing the hush.

Hyun-ju's hands found the soft baby blanket Jun-hee had left draped over the arm of the couch. She lifted it, the fabric still holding a faint, clean scent of powder and milk. Her fingers moved automatically, folding it into a neat, soft square. She ran her palm over the smooth surface one last time before setting it on the back of the sofa, a small, pale beacon in the dim light.

Na-yeon hovered near the entryway, her grip tight on the worn, velveteen ears of her stuffed bunny. She was a small bundle of leftover excitement, a current of energy in the still air.

"I think the baby liked me."

Her voice was high and certain, cutting through the quiet. She began to pace a short, tight circuit from the shoe cabinet to the edge of the living room rug.

"She looked right at me. When she opened her eyes. And her hands were so small. Smaller than my doll's hands."

Gyeong-seok leaned against the bookshelf, a soft, fond smile touching his lips. He watched her little orbit, his expression full of a quiet warmth.

"You were very gentle with her. She was lucky you were here to say hello."

Na-yeon stopped her pacing. She stood in the center of the room, a serious, determined figure clutching her bunny. Her gaze moved from Gyeong-seok's kind face to Hyun-ju, who stood frozen by the sofa, the phantom weight of the infant still a warmth in her arms.

"Why don't I have a brother or sister?"

The question landed, clear and sharp. The air thickened, the quiet no longer peaceful but heavy with things unsaid. Hyun-ju's heart gave a painful lurch, a sudden, tight clench in her chest. She could feel Gyeong-seok's eyes on her, but she couldn't meet his gaze. She focused on a small, insignificant scuff on the floorboard.

Gyeong-seok pushed off from the bookshelf. He crossed the room and knelt, bringing himself down to Na-yeon's eye level. The worn denim of his jeans crinkled. He rested a steady hand on Na-yeon’s shoulder, grounding her in the hush.

"That's a good question." His voice was low, a thoughtful rumble. "Sometimes families don't grow the same way. Or at the same time."

Na-yeon tilted her head, her pigtails flopping to one side. Her brow furrowed with the effort of understanding.

"But why?"

He hesitated for a fraction of a second. His gaze flickered up to Hyun-ju, a quick, searching look that asked a silent question. She gave a barely perceptible nod.

"Because sometimes grown-ups are waiting." He spoke slowly, choosing each word with care. "For the right time. Or for the right way to make their family bigger."

Hyun-ju’s breath left her in a slow, unsteady stream.

She had never known how to explain that sometimes you wanted something so much, it felt safer to pretend you didn’t.

She moved then, drawn into the small circle of light cast by the floor lamp. She crouched beside them, her knee brushing against Gyeong-seok's arm. The warmth of his touch was a steady anchor. She reached out and smoothed a stray wisp of hair from Na-yeon's forehead, her thumb stroking the soft skin of her cheek.

"And because even when there's a lot of love," Hyun-ju's voice was a near whisper, soft and a little raw, "sometimes it takes time to figure out what comes next."

Na-yeon looked from Hyun-ju's face to Gyeong-seok's. She hugged her bunny tighter, pressing its flat, stitched nose against her chest.

"I think our family has lots of room. It feels big enough for someone else."

The simple, honest words struck Hyun-ju with the force of a physical blow, a soft ache that bloomed deep in her sternum. Beside her, Gyeong-seok let out a slow, quiet breath. His hand came to rest on the small of her back, a firm, steady pressure.

The three of them stayed there in the hush, a small triangle of shared gravity. Na-yeon's absolute certainty. Gyeong-seok's quiet strength. Hyun-ju's fragile, blooming hope. The clock on the kitchen wall ticked, a steady heartbeat in the silence.

Gyeong-seok's gaze met Hyun-ju's over the top of Na-yeon's head. This time, there was no hesitation, no question in his eyes. Only a deep, unwavering calm.

"She's not wrong."

The two words were a tiny affirmation, small but solid as a stone.

A massive yawn overtook Na-yeon, a great, gulping intake of air that made her eyes water. She swayed on her feet, her head tipping forward.

Gyeong-seok stood, his knees popping softly. He scooped her up into his arms, and she went limp against him, her head finding the familiar curve of his shoulder.

"Come on, whirlwind. You've had a big day."

He started toward her bedroom, his steps sure and even. Na-yeon's voice was a sleepy mumble against his shirt.

"If we get a baby, she can sleep in my room. I'll share my stuffed animals. Except for bunny."

Gyeong-seok pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his lips brushing her dark, curly hair.

"We'll see, sweet girl. We'll see."

Hyun-ju remained kneeling on the rug, long after they had disappeared down the hallway. She pressed her hand to her shoulder, to the exact spot where the baby's small, warm head had rested. She could almost feel it still, a ghost of perfect weight. The scent of newness lingered in her memory.

The soft thud of Gyeong-seok's footsteps announced his return. He stopped in front of her and held out his hand. His palm was warm, her fingers curling around his, the touch simple and sure as he helped her to her feet. They stood together in the quiet living room, the space between them humming with the question that now hung, tangible and real, in the air.

In that hush, it felt almost safe to imagine it.

Gyeong-seok crossed the living room, his bear slippers making a soft, shushing sound against the floorboards. The couch cushions sighed as he lowered himself onto the far end, the fabric groaning softly under his weight. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his hands clasped loosely between them.

Hyun-ju sat at the other end, a careful distance between them. She folded her hands in her lap, her fingers twisting, a knot of restless energy. Outside the front windows, a car passed on the street, its headlights sweeping a slow, silent brushstroke across the curtains before the darkness swallowed them again. The quiet pressed in, gentle and expectant. It felt impossible to ignore.

He studied his hands for a long moment, the silence stretching until it felt thin.

"She really meant it, you know."

His voice was low, soft enough not to break the hush. Hyun-ju glanced at him, her restless fingers stilling.

"Who?"

He lifted his gaze from his hands to her face. A faint, knowing light touched his eyes.

"Na-yeon. About our family having room."

The words hung in the air between them. Hyun-ju's own breath felt caught in her throat. She rubbed her thumb over her palm, a repetitive, smoothing motion. Her skin felt cold, disconnected from the warmth of the room.

"I don't know if it's… something we could actually do."

Her voice was a low murmur, scraped raw with a vulnerability she rarely showed. He didn't interrupt. He simply waited, his posture an invitation. The quiet patience of it was what finally drew the rest of the words out.

"It's easy to think about in your head. A little fantasy you keep in a box. It's different to think, maybe it could really happen."

He shifted on the cushion, turning his knees toward her, closing the careful distance. The space between them shrank, became more intimate.

"I've thought about it before."

Her eyes lifted from her hands, wide with surprise. She searched his face for any sign of jest, but found only a quiet sincerity.

"You have?"

He gave a small nod, his gaze steady on hers.

"A lot, actually. Watching you with Na-yeon. Seeing you build this home for us. But I didn't want to push you. Not if you weren't ready."

A faint, self-deprecating smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind she knew so well.

"You know me. I'll trip over my own feet ten times before I ask for something big."

Her chest tightened, not with fear this time, but with a sudden, overwhelming wave of affection. He had been there all along, waiting quietly at the edge of her dream.

She looked down at the intricate pattern of the rug, tracing a faded floral swirl with her eyes. Then she looked back up at him, the lamp's glow catching the wet shimmer in her gaze.

All the old doubts crowded in, cold hands at her throat. What if they saw her as a fraud, someone only pretending to belong here?

"What if… What if they look at me and think I'm not…"

She couldn't finish the sentence. The words snagged in her throat, sharp and painful. Not a real mother. Not enough. The old fear, the one she packed away every morning and unpacked in the lonely hours of the night, was suddenly there between them, stark and ugly in the soft light.

Gyeong-seok didn't flinch. He didn't look away. His expression was resolute, a solid wall against her doubt.

"Then they're wrong."

The simplicity of it was a blow to the chest. Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard against the sudden thickness.

"That doesn't mean it wouldn't still hurt."

He nodded, his gaze softening with understanding. His hand moved from his knee to rest on hers, a warm, grounding weight over her cold, twisting fingers.

"I know."

He took a long, slow breath, letting it out in a quiet sigh. The house was so still she could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.

"We don't have to decide everything tonight."

A fraction of the tension in her shoulders eased. The knot in her stomach loosened, just a little.

"But maybe…" Her voice was barely a whisper. "Maybe we could think about it. Together."

His voice was warm, a low rumble that vibrated through her.

"I'd like that."

He slid his hand across the space between them, his fingers intertwining with hers. The touch was simple, sure. She didn't pull away. They sat there, hand in hand, the shared warmth spreading up her arm. The quiet no longer felt expectant or heavy. It felt like a promise.

Outside, another car passed, its lights painting another fleeting stripe across the curtains before darkness settled once more.

Slowly, she let her head tip to the side, her temple coming to rest against the solid comfort of his shoulder. The lamp glowed over them, a small, intimate sun in the sleeping house. The idea, once so vast and terrifying, settled into something smaller, something she could hold in her hands.

It wasn't a decision yet. But it felt like the beginning of one.

—

The bedroom was a deep, soft darkness, the world pared down to familiar shapes. A sliver of pale light from the hallway crept under the door, not enough to illuminate anything, just enough to prove the shadows were not absolute. Hyun-ju lay on her back, staring up at a ceiling she could not see. The sheets were a cocoon of warmth around her legs, but her hands, resting flat against her stomach, felt like ice. To her right, Gyeong-seok's breath was a slow, steady rhythm, an anchor in the quiet. In the distance, from the kitchen, the wall clock ticked, each second a tiny, precise drop into the silence of the house.

The evening played itself back in her mind, not in pieces, but as a whole, continuous loop. Jun-hee's tired, fierce pride. The clean, milky scent of the baby's skin. The impossible warmth of that small, solid body nestled against her shoulder. The memory was so vivid she could almost feel the weight of it still, a phantom limb of longing.

Our family has room. Na-yeon's voice, so certain, so simple.

I'd like that. Gyeong-seok's words, a quiet promise in the lamplit living room.

Each memory was a stone dropped into the well of her heart. Heavy. Sinking. Undeniable. They settled at the bottom, building a foundation for a thought that surfaced now, slow and terrifying and bright.

I want this.

The words bloomed in the dark theater of her mind. For a breath, a heartbeat, the old reflexes kicked in. The familiar instinct to shove it down, to lock it away with the other impossible things. It was a muscle she had trained for years, a shield against disappointment. But tonight, the shield felt thin, brittle. The thought remained, stubborn and clear. It did not waver. This was not a daydream. It was a declaration. For the first time, she did not look away from it. She let it sit there, naked and true in the quiet of her own mind.

A cold dread coiled in her gut, a familiar serpent. What if this was the wanting that finally broke her?

She turned onto her side, away from Gyeong-seok, curling into herself. The clock kept ticking. The sound was relentless.

"You're awake."

His voice was a low rasp of sleep, startling her. She had thought him lost to the world. She didn't turn back. She kept her face toward the wall, her eyes squeezed shut.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't." The mattress shifted as he rolled toward her, the warmth of his body a solid presence at her back. "I just knew."

She said nothing. The silence stretched, filled with everything she could not bring herself to say. His hand found her hip, a gentle, questioning touch.

"Talk to me, Hyun-ju."

"There's nothing to say." The lie was a dry leaf in her mouth.

He was quiet for a long moment. She could feel his breath stir the hair at the nape of her neck.

"So all that thinking you're doing is just white noise? No words attached?"

A tear, hot and traitorous, escaped her tightly closed eyelid and slid across her temple, disappearing into her hairline. She hated the weakness of it.

"Don't do that." Her voice was a choked whisper.

"Do what?"

"Pretend you don't know what I'm thinking about."

He sighed, a soft, weary sound. His hand moved from her hip, and for a second she felt a sharp pang of abandonment. Then his arm was around her waist, pulling her back against his chest, tucking her into the curve of his body. He was solid, warm, real. He rested his chin on her shoulder, his lips close to her ear.

"I know what you're thinking about," he murmured. "I just don't want you to do it alone in the dark."

She finally let out a ragged breath, the one she'd been holding in her lungs for hours.

"It's foolish."

"What is?"

"Wanting it. Wanting it this much." Her hand came up to rest on his arm, her fingers pressing into the solid warmth of his bare skin. "What if we go through all of it… the paperwork, the interviews, opening up our whole lives for them to inspect… and they say no?"

He didn't answer right away. He just held her, his thumb stroking a slow, steady circle on her skin.

"Then they say no. And it will hurt. And we'll be angry. And then we'll figure out what comes next."

"What if they look at my records? What if they see… me? And they decide that's not what a family should be? That I'm not what a mother should be?" The words tumbled out, the raw, ugly fear she had tried to swallow earlier. It tasted like shame.

His hold on her tightened, his arm a firm, protective band around her.

"Hyun-ju." His voice was low, laced with a quiet fire she rarely heard. "Stop."

"But it's true. It could happen."

He shifted behind her, the mattress dipping under his weight as he leaned up on one elbow.

"Listen to me." He shifted, his hand moving to cup her cheek, turning her face toward his. In the thin light from under the door, she could just make out the hard line of his jaw, the intensity in his eyes. "You are Na-yeon's mother. You are my wife. You are the heart of this house. Anyone who can't see that is a fool. And I don't give a damn what a fool thinks."

The force of his words silenced the frantic chorus of doubts in her head. She stared at him, her vision blurred.

"You make it sound so simple."

"It is." His thumb brushed away the damp track on her cheek. "The part about you being a mother? That's the simplest thing in the world. The rest is just noise."

She leaned into his touch, a slow surrender. Her own hand lifted, her fingers tracing the familiar lines of his brow and cheek, the quiet geography she had memorized over years together. The shape of him was a comfort, something steady in the dark.

"I held her tonight," she whispered, the words catching in her throat. "Jun-hee's baby. I held her, and I thought… I thought my heart was going to break."

"Why?"

"Because it felt… right. And I've spent so long telling myself that feeling was for other people. Not for me."

He brought her hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss into her palm. He held it there against his mouth, his breath warm on her skin.

"You're allowed to want things, Hyun-ju. You're allowed to want everything."

"I'm scared, Gyeong-seok."

"I know." His voice was a gentle rumble against her fingers. "Me too."

The admission hung in the air, a small, shared vulnerability. It made the fear feel less like a monster and more like a shadow they could walk through together.

"What if I'm not enough?" she whispered. "For Na-yeon, and for a new baby? What if I try to give them both everything and I end up giving them nothing?"

"Then I'll be there to catch what you drop." He said it so easily, a plain and simple fact. "You won't be doing it alone. You've never been alone in this."

She closed her eyes, letting the truth of that settle over her. She had built so many walls inside herself, prepared for so many battles, she sometimes forgot he was standing right there beside her, his own arms ready for a fight.

He lowered himself again, easing down onto the mattress, his body curling around hers.

She let him pull her closer until her back was flush against his chest again, their legs tangled together under the sheets. His steady heartbeat was a drum against her spine. The house was quiet. The world was quiet. The only thing that felt real was the solid warmth of him holding her, the unwavering conviction in his voice.

She didn't know what would happen tomorrow. She didn't know how to fill out a single form or answer a single question. But the pretending was over. That felt like a kind of victory. Maybe that was the bravest thing she had ever done, to stop fighting her own heart.

Her hand drifted up to her shoulder, to the place where the baby's head had rested just hours before. The ghost of that tiny, perfect weight was still there, an imprint on her soul. In the sheltering dark of their bedroom, held fast in her husband's arms, she let herself see it. A small, new hand curled around her finger. The sound of another heartbeat in this quiet house.

She closed her eyes, and for the first time, she did not push the image away. It was only a beginning. But it was hers.

Chapter Text

The mid-morning sun spilled across the kitchen table, a warm, buttery light that illuminated the dust dancing in the air. It was a battlefield of domesticity, neatly bisected. On one side, Gyeong-seok's world: a landscape of charcoal-smudged paper, pencils sharpened to lethal points, and a half-full mug of coffee growing cold. On the other, Hyun-ju's fortress: her laptop open to a wall of text, a legal pad scored with neat black ink, and a small, hopeful rainbow of color-coded sticky tabs. From the living room, the faint, melodic cadence of Na-yeon's singing drifted in, a one-sided conversation with her dolls.

Hyun-ju leaned forward, her shoulders hunched, her chin propped on one hand. Her lower lip was captive between her teeth. She scrolled, stopped, and then her brow furrowed, a delicate knot of concentration between her eyes. The quiet, rhythmic click of the trackpad was the only sound she made.

Gyeong-seok's pencil stilled. He had been sketching the curve of a ceramic pot on the windowsill, but his eyes were on her. He watched the tension gather in the line of her neck, the way she worried her lip raw. He set his pencil down on the sketchbook, the graphite making a soft, gray mark on the wood. He didn't want to break her focus, but the silence felt brittle, stretched thin over a deep well of anxiety.

"You're going to chew a hole right through your face."

His voice was a low, gentle tease. She startled, her head snapping up. Her eyes were wide, unfocused for a second, as if pulled from a great depth.

"I'm not."

"You are. You get that little line right here when you're plotting a government overthrow. Or, apparently, when you're reading websites."

A small, reluctant smile touched her lips, but it didn't reach her eyes. She gestured vaguely at the screen, at the neat columns of her spreadsheet.

"It's a lot."

"I can see that." He leaned over, peering at the screen. The cells were filled with agency names, contact numbers, and notes highlighted in yellow, pink, and blue. "You know, most people don't color-code an existential life decision."

"It's not existential." She straightened her spine, a flicker of her usual, organized self returning. "It's… practical. Blue is for agencies with clear information online. Pink is for the ones that seem more family-focused. Yellow is for question marks."

"What about green?"

"There is no green."

"You should make a green category. For 'let's just go get ice cream instead.'"

"That's not a helpful category."

"I disagree." He leaned back in his chair, a fond, lopsided smile on his face. He picked up his pencil again, but didn't draw. He just rolled it between his fingers. "It's also adorable."

She made a small, dismissive sound in her throat, but a faint blush crept up her neck. Her gaze dropped back to the screen, to the wall of text and requirements. The brief moment of levity evaporated, leaving the tense quiet in its wake.

"Listen to this." Her voice was tight, all business again. "This one, 'Hopeful Hearts,' their website says… 'prospective parents must demonstrate financial solvency, emotional maturity, and a stable home environment for a minimum of three years.'" She looked up at him, her eyes clouded with doubt. "Three years. We've only been in this house for two."

"We lived in the apartment before this. That's a stable home environment."

"But is it this one? They'll see the address is different. They'll see it as a change. As instability."

"They'll see it as us moving into a bigger space to make a home for our daughter. For Na-yeon." He kept his voice even, a calm counterpoint to the rising panic in hers.

She took a shaky breath and turned back to the screen, her fingers flying across the trackpad. "Okay. This one, 'Evergreen Adoptions.' Their mission statement is all about… oh, wait." Her voice fell. She scrolled down, her shoulders slumping. "They're a faith-based organization. A specific faith. I don't think… we wouldn't qualify."

"Then they're not the one for us. Next."

She clicked another link. The page loaded slowly, as if the internet itself were hesitating. She read aloud again, her voice a low monotone that barely concealed the dread beneath.

"‘Average wait times: twelve to thirty-six months.’ Thirty-six months. Three years. Gyeong-seok, Na-yeon would be nine."

The unspoken fear hung between them. What if we're too old? What if we miss the window?

He watched her, his heart aching. He could see her building a wall of facts and figures, a fortress of research to keep the real, fragile fear at bay.

"Hyun-ju. Do you want to take a break? We could… go for a walk. Get that ice cream."

She shook her head, a quick, sharp motion. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, a desperate intensity in her gaze.

"No. I need to know. I need to be prepared for what they'll ask, for what they'll look for. It's better to know now." Her voice dropped to a whisper, so low he had to strain to hear it. "What if none of them will even consider us?"

He set his pencil down. The soft click echoed in the quiet kitchen. He reached across the table, across the divide between his messy art and her rigid organization, and covered her hand with his. Her fingers were ice-cold beneath his palm.

"Stop."

She flinched but didn't pull away.

"Just for a minute. Stop reading. Look at me."

Slowly, she lifted her head. The fear was stark in her eyes now, raw and unconcealed.

"They will consider us," he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "And do you know why?"

She shook her head, a tear welling in the corner of her eye.

"Because you are the most patient, loving mother I have ever seen. Because you get up in the middle of the night when Na-yeon has a bad dream, and you sit with her until she falls asleep again, even if it takes an hour. Because you taught her how to tie her shoes by drawing little bunny ears on the laces so she wouldn't get frustrated."

"That's… that's just being a parent."

"Exactly." His thumb stroked the back of her hand. "We are already a family. We have a home filled with mismatched socks and crayon drawings and so much love it spills out the windows. We have stability. We have us."

She swallowed hard, the tear finally breaking free and tracing a silent path down her cheek. His free hand came up to brush it away, his touch impossibly gentle.

"What if they don't see that? What if they just see… a list of facts? A file? A woman who doesn't fit into their boxes?"

"Then they are the wrong agency." The words were simple, solid. "And we look somewhere else. And we keep looking until we find the people who can see what I see. What Na-yeon sees. What is plain as day to anyone who spends five minutes in this house."

His gaze was unwavering. It was the same look he'd given her last night in the dark, a look that said, I am here. This is real. You are not alone. She held his gaze, her own fear beginning to recede in the face of his certainty. She felt her hand warm beneath his.

The kettle on the stove chose that moment to shriek, a piercing whistle that shattered the fragile peace. Gyeong-seok sighed, breaking eye contact to glance at the stove. A small, pink sticky note, dislodged by the vibration, fluttered from the edge of her laptop and drifted to the floor.

He got up to turn off the flame, the whistle dying with a gasp. He bent down and picked up the fallen note. In her neat, precise handwriting, it just said: 'Breathe.'

He smiled to himself and, instead of handing it back, walked around the table and stuck it gently to the corner of her laptop screen.

"A reminder from your commanding officer," he said softly.

A wail, dramatic and full of theatrical despair, echoed from the living room.

"Eomma! Appa! It's an emergency!"

They both froze. Gyeong-seok was halfway back to his chair. Hyun-ju's hand was still outstretched on the table where he had left it.

"Na-yeon? Are you okay?" Hyun-ju called, her voice sharp with alarm.

"All the babies are sick!" Na-yeon yelled back, her tone suggesting a city-wide plague. "They all have the chicken spots! And a cough! You need to come quick!"

Gyeong-seok met Hyun-ju's eyes over the top of the laptop. A slow smile spread across his face. The tension that had held her so rigidly just moments before finally broke. A small, watery laugh escaped her lips.

"Maybe it's a sign," he murmured.

"A sign that our house is about to be quarantined?"

"A sign that you're needed. That you're already in high demand."

She shook her head, wiping her wet cheek with the back of her free hand. The smile felt more real this time. It reached her eyes. She took a deep, steadying breath,a conscious act, following the instruction on the pink note. Then she looked down at the legal pad, at the list of names she had written. Her hand, now steady, picked up a pen.

She drew a careful circle around 'Hopeful Hearts.' Then another around an agency called 'The Bridge Home.' And a third, 'Seoul Family Connections.' Three neat circles. A beginning.

"Let's start here," she said, her voice soft but clear, stripped of the earlier panic. It was the voice of someone making a decision, not one lost in fear. "We'll just call these three. One step at a time."

Gyeong-seok came to stand behind her chair. He leaned down, his warmth a comforting presence at her back. He didn't say anything. He just lifted her hand from the table, the one he had held just moments before, and brushed a soft, feather-light kiss across her knuckles. It was a silent seal on their pact. A quiet promise of shared determination.

They stayed like that for a moment, the morning sun warming their backs, the scent of his coffee and her tea mingling in the air. The sounds from the living room grew more urgent.

"The baby doll is having a very big cry! She needs her eomma!"

Na-yeon appeared in the kitchen doorway, her small face a mask of solemn importance. She clutched two dolls to her chest, their plastic limbs askew. One was wrapped tightly in a dish towel. The other had dots drawn all over its face in red marker.

She marched over to Hyun-ju and thrust the marker-spotted doll forward.

"I'm the doctor," she announced with grave authority. "You're the eomma."

Hyun-ju took the doll. Its hard plastic body felt impossibly light in her hands. She looked from its smiling, chicken-spotted face to Na-yeon's earnest one. She swallowed, a hard lump forming in her throat. The pretend game felt dangerously close to the fierce, terrifying hope blooming in her chest. This is what she wanted. To be the mom. Not just in a game.

She looked up at Gyeong-seok, who was still standing behind her. Her eyes asked the real question, the one that had nothing to do with dolls. Can we do this? Can we really try?

He met her gaze. His hand came to rest on her shoulder, a firm, steady weight. He gave a small, slow nod. His eyes were full of a quiet, unshakeable love.

We'll try.

Na-yeon jutted out her chin, looking very official. “And after I fix her, she’ll need a snack. And a nap. And then…I’ll give her a sticker. For being brave.”

Hyun-ju lifted her eyebrows. “All in a day’s work, huh?”

Na-yeon gave a solemn nod. “I’m very busy. You’re just the eomma.”

Gyeong-seok made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh.

—

The bell above the door chimed, a thin, cheerful sound that felt jarringly loud in the quiet office. A scent of lemon polish and nervous anticipation hung in the air. The walls were a pale, hopeful mint green, dotted with posters of beaming, heteronormative families holding babies. Hyun-ju felt Gyeong-seok's hand brush the small of her back, a fleeting, steadying touch.

At the reception desk, a young woman with a meticulously straight haircut glanced up from her computer. Her smile was professional, polite, a practiced upward curve of the lips. It settled on Gyeong-seok, then moved to Hyun-ju. For a fraction of a second, the smile faltered. A flicker of confusion, a momentary recalibration in her eyes, before the professional mask snapped back into place, brighter and more rigid than before.

Hyun-ju saw it. She always saw it. Her own face remained a careful blank. She stepped forward, her footsteps silent on the industrial-grade carpet.

"Hello. We have an appointment at ten. Park Gyeong-seok and Cho Hyun-ju."

She placed their identification cards on the counter. Her hand was steady. She had practiced this composure in the mirror.

The receptionist's eyes flicked from the cards to Hyun-ju's face and back again. The polite smile tightened at the edges.

"Of course. Please, have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly."

Gyeong-seok guided her toward a small sofa upholstered in a fabric of aggressive cheerfulness. He sat close, his knee pressing against hers. He gestured with his chin toward a large, drooping ficus in the corner.

"They must water these plants every ten minutes."

His voice was a low murmur, meant only for her. An anchor.

"Mm."

She pretended to study a brochure from the rack beside them. The paper was glossy and cool beneath her fingertips. The title read 'Building Your Forever Family.' She held the clipboard the receptionist had given them, her knuckles white.

The receptionist reappeared with two small cups of tea on a plastic tray. The steam smelled faintly of roasted barley.

"Thank you." Hyun-ju's voice came out smaller than she intended, too careful.

A door down the short hallway opened, and a woman with a bright floral scarf and an even brighter smile emerged.

"Mr. Park? Ms. Cho? I'm Kim Eun-hye. So glad you could make it in today. Please, come right this way."

Inside the small office, the lemon scent was stronger. Hyun-ju sat straight-backed in her chair, the clipboard resting on her knees. Gyeong-seok leaned forward, his posture open and friendly.

"We appreciate you seeing us on such short notice."

"Not at all, not at all!" Eun-hye beamed at them. "It's always a joy to meet new prospective parents. Now, I see you have a daughter already? Na-yeon, is it?"

"Yes. She's six." Hyun-ju's answer was clipped, precise.

"Wonderful! And how long have you two been married?"

"Three years."

"And you've been at your current address…?"

Hyun-ju nodded and scribbled notes on the back of a form, the pen a shield. She smiled when Eun-hye smiled. She felt her own heartbeat, a frantic, trapped bird against her ribs. She was a collection of facts on a form, a series of boxes to be checked. She could feel the woman's professional gaze assessing her, cataloging her soft voice, her neat blouse, her carefully neutral expression. Looking for cracks.

As they left, passing back through the waiting area, Hyun-ju nodded at the receptionist.

"Thank you again."

The woman's smile was the same as before. It did not reach her eyes.

Outside, the street noise was a welcome shock. A bus hissed past, its brakes groaning. The city air felt thin and sharp in her lungs after the cloying scent of the office. She stopped on the sidewalk and took a deep, shaky breath, her shoulders slumping. Gyeong-seok stood beside her, his hands shoved in his pockets, a silent, patient presence.

"Cinnamon roll?"

She shook her head, not looking at him. A tiny seed of doubt had taken root in the pit of her stomach, cold and hard.

The second agency occupied half a floor in a glass and steel tower that scraped the sky. The lobby was a cavern of polished marble and minimalist art, cool and impersonal. A silent elevator whisked them upward.

"This feels less like a family services office and more like the headquarters of a villain in a spy movie."

Gyeong-seok's whisper was a small pocket of warmth in the sterile air.

The receptionist, a woman wearing a sleek black headset, did not look up when they approached. She held up a single, lacquered finger, continuing her hushed conversation. After a full minute that stretched into an eternity, she finally swiveled in her ergonomic chair. Her expression was one of mild annoyance.

"Can I help you?"

"We have an appointment. Park Gyeong-seok and Cho Hyun-ju."

"Sign here." She pushed a tablet across the desk without another word.

They sat in a glass-walled conference room that felt like a fishbowl. The light was too bright, bouncing off the white table and polished concrete floor, leaving no shadows to hide in. Hyun-ju fussed with a loose button on her cuff, twisting the thread around her finger.

The counselor who joined them was brisk and efficient. She wore a sharp, tailored suit, and her smile, though warm, felt as practiced as the first one. She sat and immediately opened their file.

"Thank you for coming in. I've reviewed your initial paperwork. It all seems to be in order." She scanned the pages, her pen tapping a silent, staccato rhythm on the tabletop. "Now, we like to be very thorough. We find that for most typical biological families…"

She stopped. The words hung in the sterile air. A faint flush crept up her neck.

"I mean… for most traditional family structures, the transition to a second child follows a certain… pattern. We just need to ensure all our families are equally prepared."

Hyun-ju's face went hot. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks, a humiliating tide of heat. She stared at a single, perfect fingerprint on the glass tabletop, unable to look anywhere else. The word hung in her mind. Typical. Traditional. The unspoken corollary was clear. Atypical. Untraditional. Other.

Gyeong-seok shifted in his chair beside her. The sleeve of his jacket brushed against her arm, a silent, protective gesture. He cleared his throat.

"We feel very prepared. Hyun-ju is an excellent mother to our daughter."

His voice was calm, but there was a hard edge to it, a low note of warning. The counselor's professional smile didn't waver.

"Of course. I have no doubt. But the court will ask these questions. It's my job to anticipate them."

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur of muted sound and blinding light. Questions about their finances, their community ties, their support systems. Hyun-ju's answers grew shorter, more mechanical. The warmth had leached out of her.

"And you, Ms. Cho." The counselor's gaze was direct, her tone carefully neutral. "Your history is, you'll admit, somewhat unique. Have you considered how a child might feel if their classmates discover the details? If they question their parentage?"

Something inside Hyun-ju withered. The question was a sharp, clinical probe into her deepest fear. She had spent countless nights considering it, turning it over and over until it was smooth with worry.

"I've considered it." Her voice was steady, a miracle of control. "And I believe that a home built on love and honesty is the best defense against any questions the world might ask."

The counselor made a note. "A very good answer."

When they finally stood to leave, Hyun-ju's hands fumbled as she gathered her notebook and papers. Her pen slipped from her numb fingers, clattering loudly on the concrete floor. The sound echoed in the glass room, a small, sharp report of her unraveling composure. Gyeong-seok bent to retrieve it, his hand covering hers for a brief second as he placed it back on her notebook.

They didn't speak in the elevator. Or in the cavernous lobby. Back in the car, the afternoon sun felt weak, filtered through the city haze. Hyun-ju stared straight ahead through the windshield, clutching her folder to her chest like a shield. The silence was thick with disappointment. Gyeong-seok started the engine, but didn't put the car in gear.

"We could take a break. Go get something sweet. Recharge."

She shook her head, her gaze fixed on the traffic light ahead.

"No. I'd rather keep going. Before I lose my nerve."

"Okay." His voice was gentle. "If one more person says the word 'typical,' I'm going to accidentally spill my tea in their lap."

A watery, humorless laugh escaped her lips. "Don't waste the tea."

The third agency, 'Seoul Family Connections,' was tucked away on a quieter side street, housed in an older building with wide windows and a welcoming, solid-looking front door. The waiting room was warm and a little cluttered. The walls weren't covered in glossy posters, but with dozens of framed photographs, snapshots of children with missing teeth, teenagers in graduation gowns, families of every shape and color laughing on beaches and in parks. It smelled faintly of old paper and brewing coffee.

On a low table, next to a basket of well-loved children's books, sat a small tray with an electric kettle and an assortment of instant coffee packets. Gyeong-seok surveyed the selection with the gravity of a connoisseur. He leaned toward Hyun-ju, his voice a conspiratorial stage-whisper.

"This is my natural habitat."

A woman emerged from a doorway, a soft laugh preceding her. She was middle-aged, with kind, crinkling eyes and hair cut in a simple, no-fuss style.

"I hear that at least once a day." Her smile was genuine, reaching her eyes without any effort. "Mr. Park? Ms. Cho? I'm Lee So-hee. It's a pleasure to meet you."

She shook Gyeong-seok's hand, then turned to Hyun-ju. Her grip was firm, her hand warm. There was no hesitation, no flicker of confusion in her gaze. It was just a greeting. A simple, human welcome.

"Please, come in. Make yourselves comfortable."

Her office was like the waiting room, cozy and lived-in. Books overflowed from shelves, a lopsided clay pot made by a child held a cluster of pens, and a thriving green plant sat on the windowsill, its leaves reaching for the sun. Hyun-ju felt a sliver of the tension in her shoulders begin to dissolve. She sat, and for the first time all day, she didn't feel like she was on trial.

"Help yourselves," Ms. Lee said, gesturing to the kettle she'd brought in with them. "The coffee is terrible, but it's hot."

They talked. Ms. Lee didn't read from a script. She asked about Na-yeon, what she liked to do, what she was excited about. She asked them how they met. She listened, her head tilted, her expression one of genuine interest. She made them feel like people, not a file number.

Hyun-ju felt the knot of fear in her stomach slowly unclench. She found herself talking about Na-yeon's obsession with drawing family portraits, how she'd already designated a corner of her room for a future sibling. The words came easily, without the careful calculation of the other meetings.

Then the moment came. The hurdle she had been dreading. She took a breath.

"We've visited a few places today." Her voice was tight with nerves. "Some of them… weren't exactly friendly."

Ms. Lee's kind expression didn't change. She met Hyun-ju's gaze directly, her own eyes filled with a weary understanding.

"I promise we don't bite."

The deadpan delivery was so unexpected that Gyeong-seok let out a small bark of laughter. He leaned forward, his face a mask of solemnity.

"That's already a huge improvement."

Ms. Lee smiled, a real smile that made the lines around her eyes deepen. The last of the ice around Hyun-ju's heart began to melt. She found the courage to ask the real question, the one that had been strangling her all day.

"I know some agencies have specific criteria. About… family structures. About background."

She braced herself for the gentle dismissal, the carefully worded rejection. Instead, Ms. Lee leaned back in her chair, her expression frank and matter-of-fact.

"Our only criteria is a safe and loving home. Families look all kinds of ways. Our job is to build them, not to put them in boxes. Children deserve to grow up in homes like yours."

The words were so simple. So profoundly decent. They landed in the quiet office with the force of a revelation. Hyun-ju felt her throat close up, a sudden, sharp sting behind her eyes. All day, she had been fighting to be seen, to be deemed acceptable. And here, this woman was just… seeing her.

Gyeong-seok must have sensed the shift. Under the table, out of sight, his hand found her knee and squeezed, a firm, grounding pressure. You're okay. I'm here.

They talked for nearly an hour. They discussed timelines and support groups, the process of home studies, and Na-yeon's crucial role as a big sister. Not once did a question feel like a judgment. Not once did she feel like she had to defend her right to be in that room, asking for this beautiful, terrifying thing.

At the end of the meeting, as they gathered their things, Ms. Lee stood and walked them to the door.

"Think everything over. Talk to Na-yeon. There's no pressure from our end." She gave them that same warm, genuine smile. "But if you do choose to move forward with us, we would be honored to help you grow your family."

The word, 'honored,' hung in the air. Honored. Not 'willing to consider.' Not 'able to accommodate.' Honored.

The car was warm from the afternoon sun slanting through the windshield. Hyun-ju leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes. She released a long, slow breath, a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire day with it. For the first time, her shoulders relaxed, dropping away from her ears. The knot in her stomach was gone, replaced by a fragile, fluttering warmth.

Gyeong-seok's hand covered hers where it rested on the center console. His voice was soft, but certain.

"I think… this is the one."

She turned her head, her eyes still closed, and nodded slowly. A single tear escaped and traced a warm path down her temple. It wasn't a tear of fear or frustration. It was a tear of profound, bone-deep relief. She pressed a hand to her chest, over her heart.

"Me too."

A tiny, incredulous smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. It felt unfamiliar, a muscle she hadn't used in a long time. It felt like hope.

Gyeong-seok squeezed her hand.

"Emergency chocolate?"

This time, she opened her eyes and turned to him, her own smile finally matching his.

"Definitely."

—

The key turned in the lock with a familiar, solid click. Gyeong-seok pushed the door inward, and the warm breath of home rushed out to meet them, a wave of comfort that smelled of savory stew and steamed rice. It was the scent of safety, of an exhale after a day spent holding their breath. Inside, the light was soft, the air thick with a gentle, lived-in peace that felt a world away from the sterile offices and judgmental silences they had just escaped.

Yong-sik was a long, lean sprawl across the overstuffed couch, his head propped on a cushion, a well-worn comic book held aloft in one hand. He looked as if he had been grafted there hours ago. On the floor, in a sea of patterned cushions, Na-yeon presided over a solemn gathering of stuffed animals, a silent tea party in progress. The scene was so achingly normal it made Hyun-ju's heart clench.

Yong-sik's eyes flickered up from his comic. He didn't sit up. He simply lifted one hand in a lazy, two-fingered wave, the picture of unbothered calm.

"You survived."

Hyun-ju let her bag slide from her shoulder, the heavy leather thudding softly onto the floor. She closed her eyes for a second, just to feel the solid ground under her feet, the familiar air in her lungs.

"Barely."

He smirked, a flash of white teeth in his handsome, indolent face. He turned a page of the comic with a soft rustle.

"Good. I was worried. No reports of property damage on the news, so I figured you kept the rampage contained."

Gyeong-seok closed the door behind them, the soft click shutting out the rest of the world. He unlaced his shoes with methodical slowness, his movements weary but deliberate.

"We kept it to emotional arson. Much cleaner."

Na-yeon looked up from arranging a plush octopus next to a threadbare dog. Her brow furrowed, her expression a perfect mirror of Hyun-ju's when faced with a confusing instruction manual.

"What's arson?"

Gyeong-seok paused, one shoe in hand, and met Hyun-ju's gaze over the top of their daughter's head. A flicker of shared amusement passed between them, a silent, weary acknowledgment of the absurdity of it all.

"It's a big word for a very bad idea."

"Oh." Na-yeon seemed satisfied with this, her attention already returning to the pressing social needs of her stuffed menagerie. "Bunny wants more tea. He's very thirsty today."

Yong-sik sighed dramatically, letting the comic book fall closed on his chest. He swung his legs off the couch and sat up, his joints popping with a series of soft cracks.

"My babysitting duties are officially concluded. The natives are restless and demanding more imaginary beverages."

He stretched, his arms reaching for the ceiling, then he ambled over to Na-yeon and dropped to a crouch, ruffling her dark hair until her pigtails bobbed.

"You're a tough boss, you know that?"

Na-yeon giggled, batting his hand away. "You're a good uncle. You read the story about the dragon three times."

"Only because you threatened me with the pointy-eared unicorn."

He straightened up and headed for the entryway, snagging his jacket from the hook by the door. As he bent to slide his feet into his sneakers, he shot a look at Hyun-ju. It was still teasing, but underscored with a genuine, brotherly concern.

"You'd better call Eomma. Tell her how today went."

Hyun-ju's shoulders, which had only just begun to relax, tensed up again. She could already imagine Geum-ja's barrage of questions, the fierce, protective energy that was both a comfort and an exhaustion.

"Can't you just tell her we're fine?"

"Nope." He popped the 'p' sound, his expression mock-serious. "If you don't call, she'll call me. And I am not, under any circumstances, getting in the middle of her maternal interrogation again. The last time she thought you were upset, I got a twenty-minute lecture on the proper boiling time for restorative broth."

Hyun-ju groaned, letting her head fall back. The weariness of the day settled on her like a heavy blanket.

"Traitor."

"Just a realist." He finished tying his laces and straightened up, slinging his jacket over his shoulder. "Besides, she made you that stew. It's on the stove. A down payment for information." He shot them a quick, brilliant smile, his easy charm a stark contrast to the stilted professionalism they had endured all day. "I expect a full report later. The uncensored version. With all the juicy, soul-crushing details."

He gave them a final, jaunty thumbs-up before slipping out the door, leaving a small vortex of cooler air in his wake. The apartment fell into a quiet, relieved hush, settling back into its own familiar rhythm. The silence felt different now, not heavy with unspoken anxiety, but soft with relief. It was the quiet of a sanctuary after a long, hard journey.

Gyeong-seok moved past her, his hand a brief, warm pressure on her back. "Smells good. You hungry?"

"Starving."

He disappeared into the kitchen, and the soft clink of ceramic bowls and spoons filled the silence.

Hyun-ju walked over to the living room rug and sank to the floor, her legs folding beneath her. She rested her chin on the arm of the sofa, watching Na-yeon carefully pour invisible tea from an empty plastic teapot into a tiny blue cup. The afternoon light slanted through the window, catching the dust motes dancing in the air, turning them into a swirl of tiny, golden stars.

Na-yeon looked up, her dark eyes wide and curious.

"Where did you go today, Eomma? With Appa?"

The question was simple, innocent. Hyun-ju's heart gave a small, nervous flutter. She wanted to tell her everything. She wanted to protect her from all of it.

"We went to talk to some people. About something important for our family."

"What was it?"

Hyun-ju reached out and smoothed a stray hair from Na-yeon's forehead, her fingers tracing the soft curve of her cheek.

"It's about making our family a little bigger. Like you said you wanted." She kept her voice low and calm, a quiet promise. "We're just figuring out the right way to do it. It takes a lot of talking to grown-ups."

"Oh." Na-yeon tilted her head. "Are the grown-ups nice?"

Hyun-ju thought of the tight, professional smiles, the sterile offices, the questions that felt like accusations. Then she thought of Ms. Lee's warm, kind eyes.

"The last one was."

"Good." Na-yeon seemed to accept this completely. Her attention was already drifting. She picked up her stuffed bunny, holding it close to her chest. "Bunny was a little bit scared when you were gone. But I told him you would come back."

A lump formed in Hyun-ju's throat. She swallowed hard against it.

"Of course I would. I always will."

Na-yeon nodded, then her face lit up with a new, urgent thought.

"Can we have pancakes for breakfast tomorrow?"

"Of course." The relief was so sharp it almost made her dizzy. For now, this was enough. For now, the world was as simple, and safe, as pancakes.

She pushed herself to her feet, her knees cracking in protest. She walked into the kitchen, drawn by the savory steam rising from the stove. Gyeong-seok stood at the counter, a ladle in his hand, a look of quiet concentration on his face. He had already set three places at the small kitchen table, the bowls flanked by small plates of kimchi and pickled radish that Yong-sik must have brought with the stew. Everything was neat, ordered, a small act of care that spoke louder than any words.

Hyun-ju leaned against the counter beside him, the cool laminate a grounding sensation against her back. She watched his steady hands as he filled a bowl, the rich, dark broth swirling around chunks of tender beef and soft daikon. He had taken off his jacket, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the strong lines of his forearms. He looked tired, the skin around his eyes darker than usual, but his presence was a solid, calming force.

He glanced over at her, a small, questioning smile on his lips.

"You okay?"

She nodded, not trusting her voice just yet. He finished filling the bowls and carried them to the table. She reached for the kettle and her favorite mug, the one with the small, hairline crack near the rim. Her hands moved on their own, spooning tea leaves into the infuser, pouring the hot water. The familiar ritual was a comfort.

She wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, letting the heat seep into her cold fingers. The day replayed in her mind, the flash of confusion in the first receptionist's eyes, the cold, glass-walled room that felt like an interrogation chamber, the casual cruelty of the word 'typical.' The sting of it all was still there, a faint, lingering poison. But then she remembered Ms. Lee's face, the genuine warmth in her eyes, the simple, profound decency of her words.

A home built on love and honesty.

She took a slow sip of her tea.

"It feels… real now." Her voice was a low murmur, almost a whisper. "After that last place. It feels different. Like maybe we're really allowed to want this."

Gyeong-seok looked up from where he was arranging Na-yeon's spoon and chopsticks. His gaze was steady, kind, and held the same unwavering conviction she had clung to in the dark of their bedroom.

"Of course we are." He said it so simply, as if it were the most obvious fact in the world. As if there had never been any doubt.

She let out a long, slow breath, a sigh that felt like it came from the very bottom of her soul. The tension she had carried all day in her shoulders, a tight, burning knot at the base of her neck, finally began to unwind.

Gyeong-seok gestured with his chin toward the table, at the steaming bowls and neatly arranged side dishes, a small, perfect picture of home. A tired, lopsided smile played on his lips.

"Victory dinner?"

A small, watery laugh escaped her. She picked up her mug and walked to the table, sinking into her chair. The warmth from the stew was a welcome cloud against her face.

"Does it still count as a victory if I almost cried in every single office we visited today?"

He sat down across from her, his expression softening. He reached across the table, his fingers briefly covering hers.

"It counts if you came out the other side. Survival is a victory." He lifted an eyebrow, his old, familiar humor a balm on her frayed nerves. "Especially when one of the victories is finding a decent brand of instant coffee."

Na-yeon clambered into her chair, her small legs swinging. She picked up her spoon with determined concentration, her eyes fixed on her bowl.

"I'm surviving too!" she announced to the room at large, her voice full of cheerful importance. "And I'm very hungry."

Gyeong-seok's smile broadened. He looked at Hyun-ju, his eyes shining with a deep, quiet affection. In that moment, surrounded by the warm steam of the stew, the comfortable clutter of their kitchen, and the two people who were her entire world, the hard edges of the day began to soften and blur. The fear was still there, a shadow in the corner, but it was smaller now. It was no match for the fierce, steady light of this.

Hyun-ju laughed, a real, unrestrained sound that felt like breaking free. The last of her tension eased away, replaced by the simple, profound relief of being home.

"Okay," she said, picking up her own spoon. "Survival it is."

—

The house breathed around her, a slow, quiet rhythm of sleep. The dishes were done, the toys were tucked into their baskets, and Na-yeon was a still, small lump under her bunny-patterned duvet down the hall. In the living room, only a single lamp burned, pooling a soft circle of amber light on the rug. The silence was a balm after the sharp-edged sounds of the day, the forced cheerfulness of chiming bells, the sterile hum of fluorescent lights, the polite, cutting questions.

Hyun-ju curled onto the sofa, drawing her knees up to her chest, making herself small. She held her phone, its dark screen reflecting her own tired face. Her thumb hovered over the contacts, a small, hesitant motion. She knew what this call would unleash. A tidal wave of concern, a barrage of questions, a fierce, protective love that was both her greatest comfort and a small, private exhaustion. She took a deep breath, the air tasting of dust motes and the lingering scent of Geum-ja's stew. Then she pressed the screen. Two names lit up in the call display: Eomma. Jun-hee. The phone rang once, a short, clipped sound cut off mid-chime.

"Why didn't you call me sooner? I was about to send Yong-sik back over there to check your pulse." Geum-ja's voice was a crackle of static and impatience, sharp and immediate.

Before Hyun-ju could form a reply, another voice broke in, softer but just as insistent. "Eomma, let her breathe. Hyun-ju, did you eat? Gyeong-seok made you eat, right?"

Hyun-ju closed her eyes, a faint, weary smile touching her lips. She leaned her head back against the cushions. "Hello to you both, too."

"Hello is for people who call when they say they will. I've been staring at this phone for three hours. What happened? Did they treat you well? Start from the beginning. Don't leave anything out."

Hyun-ju sighed, rubbing her temple with her free hand. "We went to the first place. The one on the main road. It was… fine. Very green. Very polite."

"I don't like that 'fine,'" Jun-hee's voice was sharp with suspicion. "That's the 'fine' you use when the waiter brings you the wrong order but you don't want to make a scene."

"They were just… confused. The woman at the desk looked at my ID, then at me, then back at my ID like she was trying to solve a puzzle. And the counselor kept smiling. A big, bright, empty smile."

"A hollow smile," Geum-ja muttered, the sound a low growl. "I know the type. All teeth, no heart."

"The second place was worse." Hyun-ju's voice flattened, the memory leaving a cold residue. "It was in one of those shiny glass office buildings. It felt like we were applying for a bank loan, not trying to build a family. The woman there… she kept talking about 'typical families.' 'Traditional structures.'"

A sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. Then, Geum-ja's voice, low and furious. "Traditional families my foot. What is that supposed to mean? That love has a blueprint? That your home isn't a real home? Aish, these people. You should have called me. I would have gone with you. I would have sat right across from her and stared until her eyeballs melted."

"She's not kidding," Jun-hee added, her voice a dry counterpoint. "I saw her stare down a butcher once who tried to give her the wrong cut of meat. The man started sweating."

Hyun-ju let out a weak laugh. "I know. That's why I didn't call. The goal was to be approved, not to have them file a restraining order."

"Approval from fools is not a prize worth winning. So what happened? Did you tell her where she could shove her traditional structure?"

"Gyeong-seok said something. He was very calm. Very firm. But I just… I shut down. I felt like I was back in high school, trying to explain myself to the principal."

A soft sound of sympathy from Jun-hee. "Hey. Of course you did. That sounds awful. I'm so sorry."

"But then," Hyun-ju shifted, a small spark of warmth returning to her voice. "We went to the third place. The one on the side street. Seoul Family Connections."

"Sounds respectable," Geum-ja grunted, her approval grudging.

"It was." Hyun-ju's voice softened. "It was different. The office was warm. Messy. The woman we met, Ms. Lee… she was just… kind. She didn't look at me like I was a problem to be solved. She looked at me like I was a person." She paused, the memory of that simple decency making her throat tighten. "She asked about Na-yeon. She made Gyeong-seok laugh. At the end, I finally asked her about their criteria, about… us. About me."

The line was silent, waiting.

"She said their only criteria was a safe and loving home. She said families look all kinds of ways. And that they would be… honored… to help us."

The word hung in the air, fragile and luminous. For a long moment, neither woman spoke. Hyun-ju could hear the faint sound of Jun-hee's baby fussing in the background, a soft, mewling cry.

Then, Jun-hee's voice, thick with emotion. "Well, of course they would be. You're more prepared for this than anyone I know. You have spreadsheets, for god's sake. You have color-coded tabs."

"If those other places are so busy looking for 'typical,' they'll miss out on the best," Geum-ja added, her voice gruff but the anger replaced by a fierce, proprietary pride. "Their loss. Good riddance." She paused. "But if you do decide to go back to that second office for any reason, you give me their address. I'm making kimchi this weekend. I can bring them a jar."

Jun-hee snorted. "She'll show up with a grudge and a gallon of fermented cabbage. That's a threat, Hyun-ju."

Hyun-ju laughed, a real laugh this time, the sound shaking the weariness from her bones. "I don't know which is scarier, the grudge or the kimchi."

"My kimchi is a gift," Geum-ja sniffed, though the amusement was evident in her tone.

The easy banter was a comfort, a familiar rhythm that soothed the day's raw edges. But underneath it, the fear still coiled, quiet and patient.

"I'm just…" Hyun-ju's voice dropped, quiet and unsteady. "I'm so scared it won't happen. Even with this place. I'm scared I let myself hope too much today, and it's all going to come crashing down."

There was a soft exhale on the other end of the line.

“Don’t say that,” Jun-hee murmured, her voice thick. “You’re going to make me cry, and Ji-an’s going to wake up and start screaming. Again. We can’t have that.”

The silence that followed was different. It wasn't empty. It was gentle, holding space for her fear.

"Then it hurts," Geum-ja said finally, her voice stripped of all its bluster, down to its strong, steady core. "And you get up the next day. And you try again. That's what our family does. It's what you do. You don't break that easily, Hyun-ju. I didn't raise you to be fragile."

A door clicked open down the hall, followed by the soft pad of footsteps on the wood floor. Gyeong-seok appeared in the archway between the living room and the hall, bathed in the dim light. His hair was damp, curling at the ends from his shower, and he was shirtless, a white towel draped casually over one shoulder. Drops of water clung to the curve of his collarbone, catching the lamplight like tiny jewels. He moved with a lazy, loose-limbed grace, scrubbing at the back of his neck with the towel.

He paused when he saw her watching him, his hand stilling, his gaze flicked to the phone in her hand, then back to her face. Her eyes lingered, tracing the line of his shoulders, the faint shadow of hair on his chest. A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. It was a private, intimate look, one that made her stomach give a small, pleasant flip.

His voice was a low, teasing rumble, meant only for her but perfectly audible to the phone she held near her ear. "You keep staring like that, and I'm going to think you have an ulterior motive for sending me to shower first."

A hot blush flooded Hyun-ju's face. She sat up straight, flustered. "Gyeong-seok! I'm on the phone. Put a shirt on."

“Oh my god,” Jun-hee whispered fiercely, as if she was trying, and failing, not to squeal. “Is he naked?”

Gyeong-seok's smirk widened. He strolled into the room, making no move to cover himself. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his bare chest, the picture of unbothered confidence. "Not yet."

"Yah!" Geum-ja's sharp voice cut through the air. "Park Gyeong-seok! Have some decency! Some of us are trying to have a respectable, supportive conversation about my daughter's future!"

"My apologies, Eommoni." He didn't sound apologetic at all. His eyes, full of playful mischief, were fixed on Hyun-ju.

"Ignore him," she mumbled into the phone, her face burning. "He's just showing off."

He tipped his head, his gaze sliding over her, from the sleek fall of her hair brushing her cheeks to her bare feet tucked under her on the cushions. It was a slow, appreciative inventory, a look that promised he was imagining all the ways she might not ignore him later. The air in the room grew warmer.

Instead of finding a shirt, he crossed the room with that same deliberate, unhurried ease. He didn't sit beside her. He slid onto the sofa directly behind her, his large frame bracketing hers. One arm came around her waist, warm and solid. The other draped over her shoulder, his hand settling flat against her chest, right over her heart. She could feel the steady thrum of her own pulse against his palm. He drew her back slowly, inexorably, until her spine was flush against the solid heat of his chest, her head tucked into the curve of his neck and shoulder. He smelled of soap and clean steam. She didn't fight it. She let out a small, involuntary sigh, her body going boneless as she leaned all her weight into him. He held her there, a safe, living wall at her back.

"Is he still naked?" Jun-hee whispered loudly.

Gyeong-seok's chest rumbled with a silent laugh against her back. He dipped his head, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below her ear. "Still not yet."

"This family," Geum-ja declared with a long-suffering sigh. "No shame. Absolutely no shame."

Hyun-ju hid her face in her free hand, her shoulders shaking with laughter. The solid presence of him, the unwavering support from the voices on the phone, the ridiculous, loving chaos of it all, it washed over her, cleansing the last of the day's grime. A profound sense of peace settled deep in her bones.

Her voice was soft, thick with unshed tears when she finally spoke. "I don't know what I'd do without you all."

"Make worse decisions," Geum-ja said instantly, her tone matter-of-fact.

"Have less gossip to share with me," Jun-hee chimed in.

Gyeong-seok's arm tightened around her waist. His voice was a low, smug murmur against her hair. "She'd definitely have less excellent taste in husbands."

A collective, theatrical groan echoed from the phone.

"Aigoo, listen to him."

"So humble."

Hyun-ju laughed, a full, helpless sound. She pressed her face into her hand, hiding her smile, held securely against his chest. His lips found the spot below her ear again, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss there that sent a shiver through her. For the first time all day, she felt every muscle in her body, from the tight knot in her shoulders to the clenched muscles in her jaw, finally, truly, relax. She was home. She was held. And for now, that was more than enough.

Chapter Text

The morning sun sliced through the spotless kitchen window, casting long, sharp-edged rectangles of light across the floor. The air was still, scrubbed clean of its usual lived-in scent of coffee grounds and sleepy warmth. It smelled, instead, faintly of lemon polish and a low, simmering hum of anxiety. The house was a pristine, polished stage, waiting for its curtain call.

At the small kitchen table, Na-yeon sat in a crisp blue dress, her small legs swinging rhythmically, not quite reaching the floor. Her tongue poked out from the corner of her mouth in concentration as she guided a pair of blunt-nosed scissors through a sheet of red construction paper, the soft snip-snip-snip the only sound in the quiet.

Gyeong-seok padded silently across the gleaming wood floor and placed a mug on the counter beside Hyun-ju. The ceramic was a warm, solid weight.

"Half a spoon of sugar. Extra milk."

Hyun-ju nodded, her gaze sweeping across the counter, a general inspecting her troops before a battle she was certain they would lose. Her eyes cataloged every surface, every angle, searching for a flaw, a stray crumb, a single mote of dust the light might betray.

"Just how you like it," he added softly.

She finally looked down at the mug, as if just noticing it. Her fingers, which had been pleating the edge of her own blouse, curled around the warm ceramic. The gesture was tight, automatic. She didn't drink.

On the counter, next to the meticulously arranged fruit bowl, sat a blue folder from Seoul Family Connections. Its corners were soft, the cardboard beneath the blue veneer showing through from weeks of being handled, opened, and reread in the dead of night. Its presence was a quiet accusation. Hyun-ju's free hand drifted toward it, her fingers tracing the neat, printed logo. She flipped it open, her eyes scanning the familiar typed lines, the neat signatures, the photograph of their smiling family clipped to the first page.

Gyeong-seok leaned against the opposite counter, his arms crossed. A fond, weary smile played on his lips.

"You've memorized the whole packet. Twice. We submitted it three weeks ago."

Hyun-ju didn't look up from the page. Her brow was a tight knot of concentration. "Ms. Lee might ask something that wasn't on the form. A follow-up question."

"Then we'll answer it."

"But what if we answer wrong?"

"There's no wrong answer. It's our life, Hyun-ju. We just have to tell the truth."

"The truth isn't always what people want to hear." Her voice was a low, tight thread of sound.

He sighed, a soft, patient sound. He pushed off the counter and walked over to her, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder, a gentle, grounding weight.

"Then we'll wing it. Like we did with Na-yeon's potty training."

Na-yeon looked up from her paper hearts, her face bright with the memory. "That was fun! Appa put stickers on the toilet!"

Gyeong-seok grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "See? A successful, if unconventional, strategy."

Hyun-ju closed the folder with a soft snap. She took a sip of her coffee, but the warmth didn't seem to reach her. Her gaze was already scanning the room again, her focus snagging on the stainless-steel faucet.

"The drip," she murmured, almost to herself. "We should have replaced the faucet. It still drips."

"It drips once every ten minutes. I timed it." Gyeong-seok's tone was light, but his eyes were full of a deep, gentle concern. "I doubt she's going to conduct a full plumbing inspection."

"It shows we're careless. That we let things go."

She moved away from him, grabbing the dishcloth from the sink. She wiped down the already gleaming counter, her movements quick and sharp. She straightened a picture frame on the wall that was already perfectly level. She fluffed a cushion on the sofa that was already plump.

"If she wants to disqualify us because our faucet has a personality, I will personally hand her the wrench and see if she can do any better."

His attempt at humor bounced off the rigid line of her back. She didn't answer. She just kept moving, a whirlwind of nervous energy in the quiet room. Gyeong-seok watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he walked to the entryway, bent down, and adjusted the welcome mat so it was perfectly parallel with the doorframe. He opened a low cabinet and shoved a pair of his worn-out sneakers deep into the back, hiding them behind a neat row of Na-yeon's rain boots. Small, silent acts of solidarity.

Na-yeon slid off her chair, her paper hearts clutched in one hand. She scrambled onto the small wooden stepstool they kept by the counter, which she had dragged into the center of the room. She stood up tall, her small hands clasped formally behind her back, her face a mask of solemn importance. She cleared her throat.

"Hello, Ms. Lee. I am Park Na-yeon." Her voice was a loud, clear chirp, a perfect imitation of a news announcer. "I am very excited to be a big sister. I will share all my toys."

Hyun-ju stilled, her hand hovering over a stack of neatly folded tea towels. She turned, a fragile smile barely forming.

Na-yeon took a dramatic breath, puffing out her chest. "Except for Bunny. Bunny is on probation."

Gyeong-seok made a strangled sound, half laugh, half cough, and quickly turned his face away, pretending to inspect a houseplant. The tension in Hyun-ju's shoulders loosened, just for a second. The absurdity of it was a small, welcome crack in the suffocating perfection she had tried to build.

She knelt in front of the stepstool, her own voice softening. "That's a very good speech, sweetie. But maybe we can just say Bunny is feeling a little shy today?"

Na-yeon considered this, her head tilted. "Okay. He can be shy. But he is not for sharing."

"Noted."

Hyun-ju reached out and smoothed Na-yeon's already neat hair, her fingers lingering on the soft, curly strands. Then she stood, her hands moving to her own blouse, adjusting the collar, smoothing a wrinkle that wasn't there. Her fingers trembled, a small, private betrayal of the calm she fought to project.

Gyeong-seok stepped back, his brief moment of laughter fading. He stood in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, his gaze moving from Na-yeon's earnest, proud face on her makeshift stage, to Hyun-ju's pale, tense one. He took in the scene, the spotless room, the anxious mother, the hopeful child. The air was thick with the weight of their wanting.

His voice, when he spoke, was quiet, stripped of all teasing. It was soft and full of a feeling so deep it made Hyun-ju's breath catch in her throat.

"We look like a family someone would choose."

She lifted her head, her gaze finally meeting his across the sunlit room. In his eyes, she saw not a reflection of her own fear, but a steady, unwavering belief. She saw their life, not as a collection of potential flaws to be judged, but as something whole, and good, and real. The tight, cold knot in her chest eased, just for a breath. Maybe he was right. Maybe they were enough.

Na-yeon, her paper hearts a small, triumphant stack on the table, reached for her glass of juice. It was a bright, crimson splash of color in the sunlit, neutral room, sitting dangerously close to the table's edge. She took a careful sip, her eyes still on Hyun-ju, then set it back down with a soft clink. Too close. The glass wobbled, a tiny, precarious dance on the polished wood.

The doorbell chimed.

The sound was a clean, electronic peal, sharp and definitive. It cut through the quiet air, a signal that the performance had begun. At that exact moment, Na-yeon shifted on her step stool, her elbow swinging back just a little too far.

It tipped. Time seemed to slow, the arc of its fall a graceful, horrifying curve. It hit the floor with a hollow pop, and a brilliant, arterial spray of red juice exploded across the wood Hyun-ju had wiped down not ten minutes before.

Hyun-ju flinched, a full-body recoil as if she'd been struck. Her breath caught in a sharp, audible gasp. A plan, so meticulously constructed, shattered along with the glass. Her hands flew up, fluttering uselessly in the air, caught between the mess on the floor and the visitor at the door. Her face tightened, a mask of pale, controlled panic.

Gyeong-seok moved. He didn't hesitate. He grabbed a dish towel from the counter, his movements fluid and calm in the sudden chaos. He dropped to a crouch, the towel soaking up the spreading crimson pool.

"We've got it." His voice was a low, steady murmur, cutting through her paralysis. "Go let her in. It's fine."

Hyun-ju stared at him, at the spreading stain, at the small shards of glass winking in the sunlight. Her mind raced, cataloging the failure. First impression: chaos. Mess. Unpreparedness. She gave a single, jerky nod, her spine rigid, and turned for the door. She smoothed her blouse with a trembling hand, pasted a smile on her face that felt brittle enough to crack, and opened it.

Ms. Lee stood on their welcome mat, a warm, genuine smile already in place. She wore a simple linen dress, a large, worn leather tote slung over one shoulder. A brightly colored planner peeked out from the top of the bag, its corner tabbed and slightly frayed. Her eyes were as kind as Hyun-ju remembered, crinkling at the corners. They took in Hyun-ju's tense smile, then glanced past her shoulder to where Gyeong-seok was methodically wiping the floor.

Before Hyun-ju could launch into the frantic apology already forming on her lips, Ms. Lee's smile widened.

"The best houses always smell a little like juice." Her voice was a soft, pleasant alto, unbothered. "It means someone's happy."

The simple, unexpected grace of the comment disarmed Hyun-ju completely. The tight knot of panic in her chest loosened its grip, just a fraction. She stepped back, the motion less stiff than before.

"Please, come in."

From the kitchen, Na-yeon waved, her bare feet planted in a small, sticky puddle she hadn't noticed. She clutched her paper hearts to her chest like a shield.

Ms. Lee waved back, her gaze warm and direct. "And who is this official greeter?"

Na-yeon puffed out her chest. "I'm Park Na-yeon."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Park Na-yeon." Ms. Lee stepped inside, her eyes falling on the red paper clutched in Na-yeon's hand. "Are those for me?"

Na-yeon nodded proudly. She padded across the floor, leaving faint, pinkish footprints, and offered one of the hearts. "This one is the biggest. It means family."

Ms. Lee accepted the heart with a look of mock gravity, holding it carefully by its edges. "Then I will treasure it."

Gyeong-seok rose from the floor, the damp, stained towel in his hand. He gestured toward the shoe cabinet. "We have some guest slippers, if you'd like."

Ms. Lee shook her head with a soft chuckle, her gaze already drifting around the living room. "No, thank you. I like to see how a floor feels under my feet."

Hyun-ju's heart gave a small, nervous leap. She followed Ms. Lee's gaze, trying to see her home through a stranger's eyes. The living room was the first stop. Ms. Lee didn't just scan it; she seemed to absorb it. Her eyes lingered on the small, lived-in details Hyun-ju had almost overlooked in her frenzy of cleaning. A framed photo on the low side table of Na-yeon on her first day of kindergarten, her uniform too big, her smile a flash of missing teeth. A recent drawing taped to the side of the refrigerator, visible from the living room archway: three stick figures under a lopsided sun, a giant heart floating above their heads. The stack of picture books on a low shelf, their spines softened and creased from countless readings.

"You can tell a lot about a home by the corners people don't think to clean."

The comment was quiet, thoughtful. Hyun-ju froze, her mind instantly flying to the space behind the television stand, the thin layer of dust on the highest bookshelf. She was certain she had missed something.

Ms. Lee must have seen the flicker of alarm on her face. She turned, her expression softening into a reassuring smile.

"This one feels lived-in, not staged. That's a good thing."

Relief washed through Hyun-ju, so potent it almost made her dizzy. She had spent the entire morning trying to create a flawless stage, and this woman was praising the authenticity she had tried so hard to erase.

Gyeong-seok led the way down the short hallway. "We cleared this room out a few weeks ago. It was my art studio for a while, but it gets the best morning light."

He pushed open a door. The room beyond was quiet and bare. The carpet was freshly vacuumed, the faint lines of the machine still visible. The walls were a neutral, waiting cream. One small, framed print of a coastline remained on the wall, and in the corner sat a single cardboard box, the words "Maybe for later" scrawled on the side in Gyeong-seok's handwriting. The air in the room was still, full of a silent, hopeful anticipation.

Hyun-ju followed them in, her hands clasped tightly behind her back. The tension returned, a cold prickle along her arms. The emptiness of the room felt like a presumption, a declaration of a future they had no right to claim yet.

"We weren't sure…" Her voice was a little stiff, too formal. "We weren't sure if it was presumptuous to set it up as a nursery before we… got approval."

Ms. Lee didn't answer right away. She walked to the center of the room and stood for a moment, simply looking at the empty space. She studied the way the light fell from the window, the quiet potential of the bare walls. Then she turned to face them, her expression warm and measured.

"You don't need a crib and a rocking chair to prove you're ready." Her gaze moved from Hyun-ju to Gyeong-seok, including them both in her quiet pronouncement. "The room is already full. I can feel it. That's what matters."

The words were a balm. They landed in the hollow space of Hyun-ju's anxiety and filled it with a startling warmth. She looked at Ms. Lee, startled, the careful wall of her composure crumbling. A sudden, sharp sting pricked the back of her eyes, and she had to swallow hard against the lump forming in her throat.

Ms. Lee, with a perception that felt like a kindness, gave her a moment. She turned back to Na-yeon, who had followed them into the room and was now examining the empty walls with a critical eye.

"Would you like to pick the color for the walls if you get a little sibling?"

Na-yeon nodded, her expression deeply serious. "Sunshine Yellow. Or maybe… rainbow." She paused, tapping a thoughtful finger against her chin. "But Bunny gets the final say."

Gyeong-seok's mouth twitched into a smile. He caught Hyun-ju's eye, a silent, shared look of affection and amusement that steadied her more than any words could have.

Ms. Lee checked the simple, elegant watch on her wrist. "This has been lovely. Would now be a good time to sit down and talk through a few next steps?"

"Yes, of course." Hyun-ju smoothed her blouse, her hands steadier now. As they turned to leave the room, Gyeong-seok's hand found the small of her back, a brief, reassuring pressure.

They settled around the kitchen table, the scene of the earlier juice-related crime now wiped clean. Na-yeon, feeling her duties as hostess were not yet complete, scrambled to her stepstool and retrieved a sheet of stickers from the counter. She peeled off a sparkly, silver star and, with great ceremony, presented it to Ms. Lee.

"This is for you. For being nice."

Ms. Lee accepted the sticker and, to Na-yeon's delight, pressed it carefully onto the cover of her bright planner.

"Thank you, Na-yeon. Now it's official."

As Ms. Lee opened her large folder on the table, the mood in the room had shifted. The high, brittle tension was gone, replaced by something quieter, steadier. The air was still charged, but now it felt less like fear and more like the electric, hopeful stillness before a summer rain.

Gyeong-seok moved with a quiet efficiency, his presence a steadying anchor in the still room. He filled three glasses with water from a pitcher, the clink of ice against glass a small, crisp sound that broke the silence. He set one in front of Hyun-ju.

Her fingers, which had been worrying the woven edge of a placemat, stilled. The earlier thrum of panic had receded, leaving behind a fragile, hollow calm. She took the glass, her hand not quite steady. Nearby, Na-yeon bounced on the balls of her feet, a spring of coiled energy, her stack of paper hearts clutched in her fist.

Ms. Lee unzipped her leather tote bag. She slid a thin folder onto the table, its surface covered in neat, color-coded tabs that fanned out like a tiny rainbow. Beside it, she placed her planner. The small, silver star sticker Na-yeon had given her glinted softly on the worn cover.

She smiled, a gentle, unassuming expression that seemed to warm the air.

"You've already submitted most of the heavy lifting. That application was beautifully done."

Hyun-ju felt a faint blush creep up her neck. She ducked her head, her gaze falling to the placemat.

"The handwritten notes in the margins were a nice touch. Very rare."

"I was afraid we'd forget something."

The admission was a quiet whisper. Hyun-ju looked up, her eyes meeting Ms. Lee's across the table. The social worker's gaze was direct, kind, and held no trace of judgment.

"You didn't."

Ms. Lee opened the folder, spreading a few forms across the table. She tapped a finger on a pale green sheet.

"This is just a rough overview, of course. Nothing is set in stone. Now that the home visit is underway, your file will go to our internal review committee. That usually takes a couple of weeks."

Hyun-ju nodded, her fingers tracing the condensation on her water glass.

"Your background checks are processing now. That's just standard procedure for every applicant."

At the words 'background check,' a familiar tension coiled in Hyun-ju's stomach, the kind born of too many systems that had once decided she wasn’t ‘suitable’ before even knowing her name. She felt the smooth, cool glass under her hand, a small point to focus on. Gyeong-seok's hand moved across the table, his fingertips brushing lightly against her wrist. A fleeting, silent message. I'm here. She took a slow breath.

"In this region," Ms. Lee continued, her tone even and professional, "we see a variety of needs. We have infants in foster care awaiting placement, as well as toddlers. We try to match based on what the child needs and what the family can provide."

She paused, her gaze resting on Hyun-ju for a moment, her perception sharp but not invasive.

"There is no 'perfect family' profile we're looking for. I want to be very clear about that. We aren't checking boxes. What matters is stability, empathy, and a willingness to grow right alongside the child."

The words were a direct balm on the wounds left by the other agencies. A home built on love. Families look all kinds of ways. It was a philosophy, not just a procedure.

Na-yeon, who had been listening with the solemn intensity of a child trying to decipher adult conversations, padded over to the table. She slid onto the chair next to Ms. Lee and, with a soft thud, dropped a new piece of paper onto the open folder. It was a crayon drawing. A large, rather lopsided brown rabbit with enormous ears floated on a puffy white cloud. Below the cloud, a tiny, swaddled stick figure lay in a crib.

Ms. Lee paused, her professional explanation forgotten. She tilted her head, studying the artwork with genuine interest.

"And who is this?"

Na-yeon pointed a small, decisive finger at the swaddled baby.

"That's the sibling I might meet."

"I see. Do they have a name?"

"Not yet." Na-yeon's voice was firm, a pronouncement of fact. "But Bunny will tell her it."

Gyeong-seok took a sudden, deep gulp of his water, his shoulders shaking with a silent laugh he tried to swallow.

Ms. Lee's smile deepened. She reached into her folder and produced a small, shiny sticker, a perfect gold foil sun. She offered it to Na-yeon.

"For the artist."

Na-yeon accepted it with a gasp of delight. She peeled it carefully from its backing and, after a moment of profound consideration, pressed it directly onto the center of her own forehead. She beamed, a small, radiant sun herself. Then, her artistic duties complete, she scrambled off the chair and skipped out of the kitchen, her footsteps echoing down the hall toward her room.

The small moment of levity left a warmth in its wake. The kitchen felt less like an interview room and more like a home again. Ms. Lee watched Na-yeon go, a fond look in her eyes. Then she turned back to them, her expression quiet again. Her pen, which had been still during the interruption, remained paused over the page. Her gaze fell to where Gyeong-seok's hand still rested near Hyun-ju's wrist. She didn't comment on it, but she saw it. She saw the silent, constant current of support that flowed between them.

"You're doing better than you think."

The quiet observation caught Hyun-ju off guard. She wasn't sure what she had expected, but it wasn't that. It wasn't praise. It was a simple statement of fact, delivered with a gentle certainty that made it impossible to argue with.

Ms. Lee leaned forward slightly, her posture shifting from professional to personal. The movement was subtle, but it changed the energy at the table, inviting a different kind of conversation.

"If you don't mind me asking… What drew you to adoption?"

The question was simple, direct, but it held the weight of their entire journey. Hyun-ju and Gyeong-seok glanced at each other, a silent conversation passing between them in a single look. Who should begin?

Hyun-ju spoke first. Her voice was soft, but the unsteadiness was gone. It was clear and steady.

"It started as just a thought. A someday idea."

She looked down at her hands, clasped together on the table.

"But after we built this life… after everything we went through together to become the family we are… it didn't feel like a far-away idea anymore. It felt possible. It felt like the next right thing."

She lifted her head, her gaze direct.

"It felt like our family wasn't quite finished yet."

Gyeong-seok added his own quiet truth to hers, his voice a low, certain counterpoint.

"We already know how much love we have to give. It just started to feel like there was still room. Like maybe there was someone else out there who needed it."

He looked at Hyun-ju, a deep, unwavering affection in his eyes.

"We make a good team. We know how to take care of each other. It felt selfish not to share that."

Ms. Lee listened, her expression open and receptive. She didn't press, didn't ask for more detail. She simply heard them. She made a small, brief note on her form, then looked up, her professional warmth returning.

"Thank you for sharing that."

She straightened the papers on the table, her movements crisp and organized once more.

"So, the next step will be a formal follow-up from me in a few weeks, once the committee has reviewed your file. We'll also need to get your final health paperwork submitted, and I'll send you a link to some optional online workshops. Some of our families find them helpful. They cover everything from newborn care to talking about adoption with older children."

She gathered her forms, tapping them into a neat stack.

"You'll hear from me soon. I promise."

She paused, her eyes twinkling with a hint of humor. Her gaze flicked to the pristine floor.

"And in the meantime, try not to re-wipe your kitchen floors more than once a day."

Hyun-ju let out a small, surprised laugh. The sound was quiet, but it was real. The tension in her shoulders finally, fully released.

"No promises."

Ms. Lee slid the paperwork back into her tote bag. She took the red paper heart Na-yeon had given her and tucked it carefully into her planner, leaving the top edge of it visible, a small crimson flag of hope.

At the door, as Gyeong-seok held it open, she turned back one last time. Her smile was wide and sincere, reaching all the way to her kind, crinkling eyes.

"Thank you both. This is a home someone will be lucky to grow up in."

The words hung in the air long after the door clicked shut. Lucky. The word echoed in Hyun-ju's mind, a quiet, powerful antidote to all the doubt she had carried.

She walked to the window beside the door just as Ms. Lee started down the short garden path. Inside the glass, Na-yeon's small face appeared beside hers, her nose pressed flat against the pane, the gold star still shining on her forehead. She waved, both hands moving in a furious, joyous blur.

Ms. Lee turned, saw the two faces in the window, and waved back. Not a small, polite wave, but a big one, with both hands, a mirror of Na-yeon's own unrestrained delight. Hyun-ju watched until the car pulled away from the curb and disappeared around the corner, leaving their quiet street empty once more. The house was the same, but everything felt different. The air was lighter. The silence was filled not with anxiety, but with a quiet, shimmering possibility.

Chapter Text

Twelve days. The number had a rhythm, a heavy, dull beat that pulsed in the quiet spaces of the house. Twelve days since Ms. Lee's car had disappeared around the corner. Twelve sunrises. Twelve nights spent staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle. Twelve days of silence.

The crisp, brittle perfection of the home had softened, relaxing back into its usual comfortable clutter. A stray plush octopus lay half-hidden under the coffee table. A thin film of dust had begun to reclaim the highest bookshelf. In the kitchen, the counters were wiped clean, but a single, faint ring from a forgotten water glass marred the stainless steel by the sink. The home had exhaled, but the air remained thick, charged with the weight of an unasked question. On the low coffee table, the blue folder from Seoul Family Connections lay closed. It was a silent, patient sentinel, a constant reminder of the life held in suspension.

The smell of sizzling butter and sweet batter filled the kitchen, a deliberate act of domestic cheer. Gyeong-seok stood at the stove, a spatula in hand, his movements a study in forced nonchalance. He hummed a tuneless, off-key melody, pouring a careful ladle of pancake batter into a heart-shaped mold. The hiss and pop of it filled the room.

At the small kitchen table, Na-yeon hunched over a piece of paper, her tongue stuck out in concentration. A rainbow of markers fanned out around her, uncapped and ready. She drew with a fierce, focused energy, her small hand gripping a yellow marker.

Hyun-ju sat across from her, a ghost at the feast. Her gaze was fixed on the dark, reflective screen of her phone. She tapped it, watched it light up, no calls, no new messages, then watched it go dark again. A nervous, repetitive ritual.

"Alright, my little artist." Gyeong-seok's voice was bright, a little too loud in the quiet room. "Breakfast is almost ready. Let's clear the launchpad."

Na-yeon didn't look up. "In a minute, Appa. The baby needs a face."

"The baby can get a face after it gets pancakes. A happy baby is a well-fed baby." He slid the first golden-brown heart onto a plate, the steam rising in a warm cloud.

"But what if its face is sad because it doesn't have eyes yet?"

"Then it can eat its feelings, like the rest of us." Gyeong-seok winked at Hyun-ju, who didn't seem to notice. He placed a plate in front of Na-yeon, a perfect, fluffy heart. "Come on. Your masterpiece can wait. Art requires fuel."

Na-yeon sighed, a dramatic, put-upon sound. She reluctantly capped her markers and slid her drawing to the very edge of the table, just out of the pancake's splatter zone. It showed four stick figures now, the newest one a tiny, scribbled bundle in a larger figure's arms.

Hyun-ju tapped her phone screen again. Lit it up. Let it go dark. Her thumb slid over the cool glass, opening her email app. Her eyes found the last message from Ms. Lee, the one confirming receipt of their final health paperwork. She read the sign-off for the tenth time that morning.

Warmly,

Ms. Lee.

Was it just a standard closing? Or did it mean something more? Was warmth a code for approval? Or was it just… polite? The word had lost all meaning.

Gyeong-seok set a plate in front of her. Two hearts, one slightly larger than the other. He followed it with her favorite mug, the one with the hairline crack.

"Half a spoon of sugar. Extra milk."

"Thanks." Her voice was a dry whisper.

He placed the mug next to her hand but she didn't reach for it. He stood beside her chair for a moment, his hand coming to rest on her back, rubbing a slow, absent circle between her shoulder blades. He didn't ask if she was okay. He didn't ask what she was thinking. He just stood there, his touch a silent, solid presence against the thin fabric of her shirt. A quiet anchor in the churning sea of her thoughts. After a moment, he went back to the stove.

Hyun-ju finally picked up the mug, her fingers cold against the ceramic. The phone in her lap lit up again, this time on its own. A low-battery warning. Her heart leaped for a fraction of a second, a stupid, reflexive jolt of hope, before it crashed back down. Disappointment was a sour taste in her mouth.

Na-yeon, her own pancake half-eaten, picked up her drawing again. She held it up, inspecting it with a critical eye.

"Eomma?"

Hyun-ju lifted her head, pulling her focus from the black screen. "Yes, sweetie?"

"Should I leave a blank space for the baby's name? Or should I just write 'baby'?"

The question, so innocent and full of faith, was a sharp, physical pain in Hyun-ju's chest. Her throat tightened, the words catching behind a sudden wall of emotion. She swallowed, forcing her voice to remain even, to not betray the tremor that ran through her.

"Just… just baby is fine for now, sweetie."

Na-yeon nodded, her expression solemn. She uncapped a black marker. "Okay. But I think Bunny already knows the real name. He just won't tell me. It's a secret."

She bent back over her drawing, carefully lettering the word 'BABY' above the smallest stick figure. Hyun-ju watched her, the sight of that confident, hopeful word a fresh torment. She set her coffee mug down, the untouched liquid sloshing against the sides. The phone in her lap felt impossibly heavy. The air was thick with unspoken words, with the crushing weight of their wanting. She finally let the darkest fear surface, giving it voice before it could suffocate her.

"What if they forgot about us?"

The question hung in the air, fragile and sharp. The sound of the spatula scraping against the pan stopped. Gyeong-seok turned off the stove. The kitchen fell silent, save for the soft scratch of Na-yeon's marker on the paper.

He walked over to the table and sank into the chair beside her. He didn't say anything for a long time. He just looked at her, his gaze steady, taking in the faint, dark circles under her eyes, the tight line of her mouth, the rigid set of her shoulders. He saw all the fear she tried so hard to hide. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and certain, a single, solid stone dropped into a churning pool.

"They didn't."

She looked at him, searching his face for any hint of doubt, any flicker of the same terror that gripped her. She found none. Only a quiet, unwavering conviction that felt both like a comfort and a lie. She wanted to believe him. But the silence from the agency was too loud, too final. Hope felt like a trick. But she leaned sideways, just a few inches, until her shoulder rested against his. His arm came around her, pulling her close. She closed her eyes and let her head fall against his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of him, of soap and pancake batter and a love so steady it almost felt like enough. Almost.

—

The fluorescent lights of the sprawling mart hummed a flat, even note, bleaching the color from the towering aisles of neatly stacked goods. The air smelled of polished linoleum, cardboard, and the faint, sweet scent of packaged bread. Gyeong-seok pushed the cart, its wheels rumbling a soft, uneven rhythm on the floor. He paused, picking up two different bags of rice crackers, his brow furrowed in concentration.

"Look, this one has a cartoon bear on the front, but this one has twenty percent more crackers for the same price."

Na-yeon, who had been skipping just ahead of the cart, her pigtails bouncing, skidded to a halt. She peered at the bags with the gravity of a seasoned investor.

"The bear one tastes better. It has more magic."

"Magic isn't listed in the nutritional information, sweetie." Gyeong-seok tossed the more practical bag into the cart with a decisive thud. "We're getting the one with more crackers."

"But the bear looks lonely."

"The bear is a marketing tool designed to prey on the innocent hearts of six-year-olds."

Na-yeon squinted at him. "What's a mark-a-ting tool?"

"It's how the bear gets you to pay extra for less magic."

She huffed, unconvinced, but let it go. She latched onto the side of the cart, her small body swaying with its movement as Gyeong-seok pushed forward. From a few paces behind, Hyun-ju watched them, a faint, tired smile on her lips. She ran a hand over a display of perfectly stacked toilet paper rolls, the plastic crinkling under her fingers. She was a satellite orbiting their small, bright sun, close enough to feel the warmth but not quite part of the core. The echo of the silent phone, the empty inbox, the twelve days of waiting, created a low hum of static beneath the surface of the ordinary day.

"Okay, what's next on the list?" Gyeong-seok consulted the folded piece of paper in his hand. "Dish soap, toothpaste, and… whatever 'the good snacks' are."

"The good snacks are the ones with chocolate on them!" Na-yeon piped up, already craning her neck to see down the next aisle.

"Of course they are."

Hyun-ju's smile widened slightly. The simple, familiar rhythm of their errands was a comfort, a small patch of solid ground. She drifted along in their wake, letting their cheerful bickering wash over her.

Gyeong-seok turned the cart, its front wheel squeaking in protest, and rounded the corner of an endcap piled high with laundry detergent.

And there it was.

The world shifted. The humming fluorescent lights seemed to soften, the harsh primary colors of the grocery aisles giving way to a sudden, gentle wash of pastel. Pale pinks, soft blues, creamy yellows, and a clean, innocent white. An entire aisle dedicated to beginnings. A universe of tiny things.

Na-yeon, her mind already on chocolate, skipped right past it without a second glance. The cart rumbled onward a few feet before Gyeong-seok, his attention on his list, realized Hyun-ju was no longer behind him.

She stood frozen at the entrance to the aisle, a statue carved from longing. The air changed, growing thick and quiet, muffling the distant sounds of cash registers and public announcements. Her world had narrowed to this one corridor. It was a landscape of soft blankets folded into neat squares, of miniature socks that looked like they belonged to a doll, of bottles with brightly colored caps and pacifiers lined up like tiny, silent promises.

Her gaze landed on a circular rack in the center of the aisle. It held rows of newborn onesies, hung on impossibly small hangers. Simple, soft, cotton. Some were striped, some had faint prints of sleeping moons, but her eyes fixed on a single, plain white one. It was perfect. Unadorned. A blank canvas.

Her hand lifted, an involuntary motion, a twitch of pure instinct. Her fingers stretched, hovering in the air a few inches from the fabric. She could almost feel the softness of the cotton, the cool weight of the tiny snaps. The desire to touch it, to hold its small weight in her hand and feel its reality, was a physical ache in her chest.

She pulled her hand back, clenching it into a tight fist at her side. Her fingernails bit into the soft flesh of her palm. The sharp, small pain was a grounding anchor against the tidal wave of want that threatened to pull her under.

"Hyun-ju?"

Gyeong-seok's voice was a soft intrusion into her silent world. He had left the cart a few feet away, telling Na-yeon to guard it. He came to stand beside her, his presence a warm, solid wall. He didn't touch her. He didn't ask what was wrong. He just stood there, his gaze following hers to the rack of tiny clothes. He saw the white onesie. He saw the universe of hope and fear it contained.

A long moment passed. The only sound was the faint hum of the lights and the distant, tinny music of the store.

"They're so small."

Her voice was a thread of sound, barely a whisper, frayed at the edges. It cracked on the final word, a small, sharp break that exposed the raw emotion beneath. She kept her eyes fixed on the onesie, unable to look at him, afraid that meeting his gaze would shatter the fragile composure she was clinging to.

"They are." His voice was low and gentle, a soft murmur that didn't ask for anything more.

Her throat felt tight, thick with unshed tears. The confession spilled out of her, a quiet, painful rush.

"I didn't think I'd want it this much."

Her shoulders trembled with the force of the admission. It was one thing to wish for it in the dark, to fill out forms and imagine a future. It was another thing entirely to be confronted with the tangible, heartbreakingly small proof of what that future would hold, and to know it might never be hers.

"But I do. I really do."

Her hand twitched again, another aborted movement toward the rack. She wanted to snatch the onesie, to hold it to her chest, to claim it. The wanting was a physical force, a hollow ache deep in her bones.

Gyeong-seok's hand covered hers. His fingers were warm and firm, engulfing her clenched fist. He didn't try to pry her fingers open. He just held her hand, his thumb stroking slowly, rhythmically, over her tense knuckles. A silent, steady pressure. A shared weight.

"You're allowed to want it," he said, his voice quiet but certain. "It's okay to want. That doesn't make it more fragile."

She leaned into him, a small, almost imperceptible shift of her weight, resting her head against his shoulder. A long, shuddering breath escaped her lips. An exhale of held tension, of fear, of a hope so fierce it hurt. She closed her eyes, and for a moment, the overwhelming aisle disappeared. There was only the solid warmth of his shoulder under her cheek and the steady pressure of his hand on hers. They didn't buy anything. They didn't need a souvenir of their longing. They just stood there, two silent figures in a river of mundane commerce, holding on to a shared, unspoken dream.

"Appa! Eomma!"

Na-yeon's voice, a bright, insistent shout, shattered the quiet moment. It came from another aisle, farther down.

"Come look! They have the cereal with the marshmallows that look like spaceships!"

They both jolted, pulling apart. The spell was broken. Hyun-ju's head snapped up, her eyes wide. Gyeong-seok was already moving.

"Na-yeon!" he called, his voice tight with alarm as he strode quickly past the cart she had abandoned. "I told you to stay put!"

Hyun-ju rushed after him, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. They rounded the next aisle and found her standing on her tiptoes, reaching for a brightly colored box on a middle shelf, oblivious to their terror.

Gyeong-seok scooped her up into his arms, his relief and frustration warring on his face.

"You do not run off like that. Do you understand me? You stay where I can see you. Always."

Na-yeon's face crumpled, her bottom lip trembling. "But I saw the spaceships."

"I don't care if you saw a real alien driving a flying saucer. You stay with us."

Hyun-ju stepped in, her arms already out. Gyeong-seok shifted their daughter gently into her embrace without a word. She gathered Na-yeon close, one hand pressing between her shoulder blades, the other slipping up to cradle the base of her skull, a desperate check to make sure she was real, solid, safe.

Hyun-ju hugged her tightly, burying her face in the girl’s soft hair, breathing in the familiar scent of shampoo and playground dirt.

The moment passed. The crisis was averted. But as they walked back to their abandoned cart, their small family unit restored, the ache lingered, a quiet, resonant hum beneath the surface of her heart.

—

The living room swam in the deep, liquid gloom of late evening. A single lamp on the side table cast a warm, isolated circle of gold, leaving the corners of the room to the shadows. On the television, vibrant figures danced and gestured in a soundless drama, their silent, frantic movements a stark contrast to the heavy stillness that had settled over the couch.

Gyeong-seok's head rested in Hyun-ju's lap, his long frame stretched across the cushions. The weight of him was a comfort, a solid, living anchor in the quiet drift of the evening. Her fingers moved through his hair, a slow, absent rhythm, the soft strands catching the lamplight. She wasn't really watching the television. Her gaze was distant, fixed on the dark space between the screen and the wall, lost in the echo of the day's raw ache. The image of the tiny white onesie lingered behind her eyes.

Her phone, resting on the cushion beside her, buzzed with a soft, insistent vibration against the fabric. The screen lit up, a sharp rectangle of blue-white light in the dim room. A message.

Eomma 💙: Call me when you're free.

She stared at the words for a long moment. Then, with a quiet sigh that was more weariness than relief, she tapped the speaker icon. The familiar chime echoed softly in the quiet. The line connected after a single ring.

"There you are. I was starting to think you'd fallen asleep with your face in your dinner." Geum-ja's voice filled the space, raspy and direct, yet undergirded with a familiar warmth that cut through the gloom.

"Hello, Eomma." Hyun-ju's own voice was a soft, frayed thing.

"Don't 'hello, Eomma' me with that tired voice. How are you holding up?"

Hyun-ju's gaze drifted to the muted screen, where a woman was now weeping silently. "We're still waiting."

"I know that. I'm not asking for a news report. I'm asking how you are."

A beat of silence stretched, filled only by the whisper of Hyun-ju's fingers in Gyeong-seok's hair. "It's quiet. Too quiet."

Gyeong-seok shifted in her lap, his body adjusting to some deeper comfort. He nuzzled his face against her stomach, the warmth of his breath a faint, steady presence through the thin cotton of her shirt. Unconsciously, she paused her stroking motion and brushed a stray lock of hair back from his temple, the gesture soothing a part of herself she hadn't realized was so tense.

"Quiet is for libraries and graveyards. A house like yours should have some noise." Geum-ja's voice was gruff, but it was the gruffness of concern. "Have you eaten a proper meal today? Not just Na-yeon's leftover rice crackers."

"Gyeong-seok made pancakes this morning."

"Pancakes are not a meal. They are a celebration. You need broth. Something with substance."

"We had dinner, Eomma. I promise." Hyun-ju cleared her throat. "I just… I'm tired."

"Of course you're tired. Waiting is heavy work. It takes more out of you than digging a ditch."

Geum-ja didn't offer empty reassurances. She didn't say 'it will happen soon' or 'don't worry.' She just stated the truth of the feeling, and in doing so, made space for it. The simple validation was a relief so profound it almost hurt.

Hyun-ju's carefully constructed wall of composure began to crumble, the words spilling out in a low, quiet rush. "I think I'm more scared of hoping than I am of them saying no."

"Explain that. It sounds ridiculous."

"If they say no, it's over. It's a clean break. Painful, but… final. But this part… the hoping… it's a constant ache. Every time the phone rings. Every time I open my email." Her voice was barely a whisper. "I tell myself not to check. I say I'll just wait for them to call. But I can't stop myself. It's like picking at a wound to make sure it's still there."

Her voice cracked on the last few words, a small, sharp splinter of sound. She swallowed hard, the muscles in her throat tight. She cleared her throat, a quick, sharp sound to cover the break.

On the other end of the line, Geum-ja was silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, but laced with a familiar, steely admonishment.

"You always do that."

"Do what?"

"You act like you're the only one holding the line. Like you're some lone soldier on a watchtower, and if you look away for a second, the whole fortress will fall."

Hyun-ju didn't answer. The accusation was too true.

"Listen to me, Hyun-ju. You're not the only one waiting. You're not the only one hoping. You don't have to carry the entire weight of this outcome on your own back. It's too heavy for one person." Geum-ja's voice softened further, the scolding giving way to a deep, resonant tenderness. "You didn't fight so hard to get this far just to shoulder it all alone. Not with a man like Gyeong-seok lying right there beside you."

As she listened, Hyun-ju's free hand came to rest on Gyeong-seok's cheek. Her thumb stroked the rough, late-day stubble along his jawline. He hummed, a low, sleepy sound of contentment, and shifted, his face pressing deeper into her. His hand came up from where it had been resting on the cushion and squeezed her hip gently, a brief, reassuring pressure that said, 'I'm here. I heard that.'

The silence in the room felt different now. The heavy, anxious weight had lifted, replaced by something shared and quiet. A single tear escaped from the corner of Hyun-ju's eye and traced a cool path down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away.

"He's a good man," Hyun-ju whispered, her voice thick.

"I know he is. I wouldn't have let you keep him otherwise." A hint of the old fire returned to Geum-ja's voice, a flicker of humor that made Hyun-ju's lips curve into a watery, fragile smile. "Now, stop all this worrying. You've done your part. You built the nest. The right bird will find its way there. I'm proud of you, you know."

Hyun-ju closed her eyes.

"You were always meant to be somebody's Eomma. The world is just finally catching up."

Another tear slipped free. This one was for the raw, unconditional love in those words, for the fierce belief that had been her anchor for so long. She barely managed to get the words out past the lump in her throat.

"Thank you, Eomma."

"Now go get some sleep. And eat some real food tomorrow. I'll call to check."

"I will."

"Good. I love you."

"I love you, too."

The line clicked. Silence rushed back in to fill the space, but it was a different kind of silence now. Softer. More breathable. Hyun-ju set the phone down gently on the arm of the couch, her hand lingering on the cool screen for a moment before she let it fall back into her lap.

Gyeong-seok stirred. He lifted his head slowly, his hair tousled, his eyes soft with sleep and concern. He sat up, the couch cushions sighing under his weight. He didn't ask what the call was about. He didn't pry. He simply looked at her, his gaze taking in the faint tracks of tears on her face, the weary slump of her shoulders, the quiet resignation in her eyes.

He shifted, turning to face her. He leaned back into the cushions, a silent, solid presence in the lamplight. Then, he opened his arms. A simple, profound invitation.

"Come here."

His voice was a low murmur, warm and steady as the earth. It was not a question. It was a statement of fact. A destination.

She didn't hesitate. A long, shuddering breath escaped her, a sound of release, of surrender. The last of her tightly held tension loosened its grip. She moved into his space, letting him guide her into the quiet safety of his embrace.

Her head found the hollow of his shoulder, her cheek pressing against the warm, solid wall of his chest. Beneath her ear, his heartbeat was a slow, steady drum. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. A rhythm of life, of presence. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close until there was no space left between them. One of his hands stroked slowly, firmly, up and down her back, a motion of pure comfort. The other came to rest at the nape of her neck, his fingers gently tangling in her hair.

He held her like that for a long time, letting the silence settle around them, a soft, protective blanket. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low vibration against her ear, his breath warm in her hair.

"I'm not going anywhere. No matter how long we have to wait."

She closed her eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of him, of soap and evening and home. She didn't need to answer. He wasn't asking for reassurance. He was giving it. Her own arms wrapped around his waist, holding on.

The television flickered, forgotten. They stayed just like that, two figures wrapped in golden light, hearts resting in sync, waiting together.

Chapter Text

The late morning light was a soft, forgiving gold, spilling across the living room floor and illuminating the dust motes that danced in the still air. On the rug, Na-yeon lay on her stomach, her chin propped in her hands, a fierce concentration furrowing her brow. A fan of uncapped markers lay scattered around her, and she was meticulously filling in a patch of sky on her drawing, her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth. The television murmured in the background, a low, cheerful drone of a children's program that no one was watching.

In the center of the room, surrounded by a mountain of clean laundry that smelled of sunshine and soap, Gyeong-seok folded shirts with a practiced, rhythmic efficiency. A small, white t-shirt, then a pair of Na-yeon's striped leggings, then one of his own gray sweaters. Thump, fold, smooth. Thump, fold, smooth. He hummed a low, tuneless song, a rambling, made-up melody that was meant to sound casual, a soundtrack for a perfectly ordinary Tuesday.

From the kitchen archway, Hyun-ju watched them. She stood at the counter, a damp cloth in her hand, wiping down a surface that already gleamed under the light. Her movements were small and repetitive, a tight circle of motion over the same spot. Her gaze flickered from Gyeong-seok's steady hands to Na-yeon's bent head, then inevitably, to the dark, silent screen of her phone resting on the counter beside the fruit bowl. Nothing. She exhaled, a short, sharp puff of air, and wiped the same spot again. The surreal quiet of the past few days pressed in on her. Everything felt too normal, like a photograph of a life, not the life itself.

"Appa, does a giraffe's neck ever get tired?"

Na-yeon's question, piped from the floor without her looking up, broke the spell.

Gyeong-seok paused mid-fold, a pair of his own mismatched socks in hand. He considered the question with mock gravity. "I think that's why they eat leaves from the tops of trees. It's like a neck stretch and a snack, all in one."

"Oh." Na-yeon seemed to find this logic sound. She returned to her drawing.

Hyun-ju's lips twitched, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. She rinsed the cloth at the sink, wrung it out with a fierce twist of her wrists, and hung it precisely over the faucet. Her eyes landed on her phone again. She picked it up, her thumb swiping across the screen, a nervous habit she couldn't break. No calls. No emails. No notifications. Just the bright, indifferent background of her home screen: a photo of the three of them at the beach last summer, smiling into the sun.

She was about to set it down when the screen lit up.

The phone rang.

The sound was a sharp, electronic peal, brutal and sudden in the quiet room. It wasn't the familiar jingle of Jun-hee's calls or the soft chime she had set for Geum-ja. It was the phone's default ringtone, loud and impersonal and utterly alien.

Hyun-ju froze. Her hand, holding the phone, went rigid. The breath caught in her throat.

Gyeong-seok looked up from his laundry pile, his hands stilled on a half-folded towel. His casual posture vanished, his whole body suddenly alert. Even Na-yeon paused, her marker hovering over the paper. The sound had sliced through the domestic calm, exposing the raw nerve of tension that lay just beneath.

Hyun-ju's gaze dropped to the screen. The words glowed there, stark and clinical.

Seoul Family Connections.

Her heart gave a single, violent thud against her ribs. Time seemed to warp, the seconds stretching into a long, humming silence punctuated by the shrill ringing. She looked at Gyeong-seok, her eyes wide and dark in her pale face. His expression mirrored her own shock, his mouth a tight line.

"It's them."

The words were a dry whisper, barely audible. She turned, a slow, robotic movement, and walked out of the living room, into the relative privacy of the short hallway. Her bare feet were cold against the wooden floorboards. The light in the hall felt different, dimmer, heavier with consequence.

She took a breath that did nothing to fill her lungs. She pressed the green icon on the third ring.

"Hello?" Her voice was thin, unsteady. She cleared her throat. "This is Cho Hyun-ju."

"Hello, Hyun-ju! This is Ms. Lee from Seoul Family Connections." The voice was exactly as she remembered it, calm, warm, professional. The sound of it made Hyun-ju's hand tremble. "Is now a good time to talk?"

"Yes. It's… it's fine." She leaned her shoulder against the cool wall, her free hand clutching the fabric of her shirt, twisting it into a tight knot.

"Good. I won't keep you long. I just wanted to call with an update." Ms. Lee paused, a small, deliberate space in the conversation that felt vast and bottomless. Hyun-ju's entire world seemed to hang suspended in that brief silence. She closed her eyes.

"The committee met this morning." Another pause. "I wanted to be the one to let you know—you've been matched."

Silence. The words didn't land. They hovered in the air, abstract and unreal. Hyun-ju's mind went blank. She heard the words, but they were just sounds, disconnected from meaning. She gripped the phone tighter, her knuckles white.

"We've… we've been matched?" She repeated the phrase back to Ms. Lee, her voice a reedy echo of the other woman's confident tone.

"Yes." Ms. Lee's warmth was unmistakable now, a genuine pleasure in her voice. "We'll go over all the details at a follow-up meeting next week, of course. But I didn't want you to wait any longer to hear the news."

Hyun-ju slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, her back pressed hard against the plaster. The phone was slick in her palm. A single, hot tear escaped her eye and traced a path down her temple. The words finally broke through the fog of her shock, settling deep in her chest with a weight that felt like both an anchor and a balloon.

She whispered it, the words catching in her throat, a choked, incredulous sound. "They picked us."

"They did, Hyun-ju. We'll be in touch to schedule everything. Congratulations."

Hyun-ju couldn't form another word. She listened to the click as the line went dead, then stared at the dark screen in her hand. Congratulations.

She walked back into the living room like someone waking from a long, deep sleep. Her face was chalk-white, her eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. She looked stunned, hollowed out.

Gyeong-seok saw her face and his breath caught in his chest. He shot to his feet, the half-folded towel dropping unnoticed to the floor. The hope he'd been carefully nursing withered into sharp, immediate panic. He read the shock on her face as devastation.

"What is it?" His voice was tight, urgent. "What happened? Hyun-ju, what did they say?"

She looked at him, her lips parting, but no sound came out. She just stared, her expression a fragile, unreadable mask. Then, her face crumpled. A sound tore from her throat, a wild, broken thing that was half a sob and half a laugh. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her mouth was stretched into a trembling, disbelieving smile.

"They picked us."

He blinked, his mind struggling to catch up, to reconcile her tears with her words. The relief was so sudden, so immense, it was like being punched in the gut. "They…?"

"They picked us, Gyeong-seok." Her voice was stronger now, laced with a joy so fierce it was painful. "They picked us."

He closed the distance between them in two strides. He didn't say anything. He couldn't. Words were useless, inadequate. He just grabbed her, pulling her into a hug so tight it lifted her off her feet. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his arms shaking, his whole body trembling with the force of his relief. He held her, breathing in the scent of her, feeling the frantic, joyful beat of her heart against his own.

"Eomma! What is it? What happened?"

Na-yeon's voice, small and worried, broke through their private world. She had scrambled to her feet and was tugging on Gyeong-seok's pant leg, her face a mask of confusion and concern.

Gyeong-seok loosened his hold on Hyun-ju, his eyes still shining, and bent down. Without a word, he scooped Na-yeon up, swinging her high into the air before pulling her into their embrace, sandwiching her between them.

"They picked us, sweetie," he managed to get out, his voice thick and rough with emotion. "The lady called."

Na-yeon's worried expression dissolved into one of pure, radiant comprehension. Her eyes went wide. A brilliant, unrestrained smile broke across her face.

"They did?" she gasped. "Did they say yes?"

Hyun-ju, her face still wet with tears, laughed a real, clear laugh. "They said yes, baby."

For a heartbeat, Na-yeon just stared at her, eyes round, lips parted in stunned silence. The moment held, suspended and shimmering, like the air right before fireworks.

Then she erupted, a squeal of a squeal of uncontainable joy. She threw her arms around both their necks, her small body vibrating with excitement.

"I'm gonna be a big sister!" she shrieked, her voice triumphant. "I knew it! Bunny told me!"

The sheer force of her joy was infectious, a spark that ignited their own stunned happiness. Gyeong-seok's laugh joined Hyun-ju's, and in a clumsy, tangled mess of limbs and laughter and happy tears, the three of them collapsed onto the soft laundry pile on the floor, a single, lopsided, joyous heap.

A few minutes later, the storm of emotion subsided, leaving a dizzying, breathless calm in its wake. Gyeong-seok sat on the rug, leaning against the couch, with Na-yeon nestled comfortably in his lap. She was chanting softly to herself, a happy, repetitive mantra. "Big sister, big sister, big sister."

Hyun-ju sat beside them on the floor, her back against Gyeong-seok's knees. She felt lightheaded, her body still trembling with the aftershocks of the call. She wiped the last of the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, a dazed, wondering smile on her face. Her gaze drifted across the room and landed on the coffee table.

The blue folder from Seoul Family Connections was still there, sitting exactly where they had left it. But it looked different now. It was no longer a symbol of anxious hope and painful waiting. It had transformed. It was a promise. A beginning.

She reached out and laid her hand on its smooth, cool cover. Her voice was soft, a breath of sound in the quiet room, full of a wonder that was almost too big to hold.

"It's happening."

Gyeong-seok's arm came around her shoulders, squeezing her gently. He leaned his head against hers.

"It's happening," he echoed, his voice full of a quiet, profound certainty.

The silence that followed was thick and shimmering, like the air after a summer storm. The frantic joy settled, leaving a stunned, breathless quiet in its wake. Na-yeon, her duty as chief celebrant complete, wriggled out from their tangled embrace. Her eyes were bright, her cheeks flushed with a momentous purpose.

"Bunny needs his big sibling outfit!"

She scrambled to her feet and darted from the room, her small footsteps pounding a rapid, determined rhythm down the hall.

Left in the quiet aftermath, Hyun-ju and Gyeong-seok remained on the floor, adrift in the soft sea of laundry. He still had an arm looped loosely around her waist, his body a warm, solid weight against hers. She sat with her knees drawn up, her hands clutching her phone to her chest. The smooth glass was cool against her skin, a stark contrast to the thrumming heat inside her. She pressed it harder against her sternum, as if she could absorb the impossible truth of the last five minutes directly into her heart.

The phone felt different in her hands. For weeks it had been a source of dread, a small, dark window into a void of silence. Now it was a relic. A conduit. The single point through which their entire world had just tilted on its axis. She stared at the blank screen, her own reflection a pale, shimmering ghost in the dark glass.

Slowly, as if moving through water, she lifted the phone. Her thumb found Geum-ja's contact photo, a candid shot of her laughing, her eyes crinkled at the corners. Hyun-ju's finger hovered over the dial icon for a long second. She took a breath that felt like her first one.

Gyeong-seok shifted beside her, his movement a silent question. She met his gaze, her own eyes still wide and wet. Without a word, she tapped the screen. She pressed the speaker icon, the small green light a beacon in the dim room, and set the phone gently on her knee. The electronic ring tone sliced through the stillness, loud and expectant.

Gyeong-seok's arm tightened around her back, a steadying pressure. His other hand came to rest on her thigh, his thumb stroking a slow, rhythmic circle against the fabric of her jeans. A silent anchor.

The phone rang only once.

"You only ever call me midafternoon when something's either on fire or broken."

Geum-ja's voice was a familiar rasp, brisk and practical, but with an edge of keen-eared alertness that missed nothing. Hyun-ju opened her mouth, but the words were a tangled knot in her throat. She swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet room. Her own voice, when it came, was a frayed thread of sound, trembling with the weight of everything she was trying to say.

"They picked us."

For a beat, there was only the sound of breathing on the other end of the line. Then, before Geum-ja could answer, the background erupted.

A sharp, audible gasp, unmistakably Jun-hee. The sound of something heavy—a book? a chair?—crashing to the floor.

"Oof! Sorry! My knee!"

"Is that Hyun-ju?" Yongsik's voice boomed from farther away, muffled but insistent. "Put her on speaker! Tell her to put it on speaker!"

More rustling. The distant, indignant yapping of a small dog.

"Yah! Yongsik, get your feet off my coffee table!"

"Is she on speaker yet?"

Geum-ja's voice cut through the chaos, completely ignoring the domestic pandemonium. Her tone had softened, shedding its brusque outer layer to reveal the warm, steady core beneath. It was the voice Hyun-ju had heard in her darkest moments, the one that always knew how to find the ground.

"Hyun-ju. Listen to my voice. Are you listening?"

"Yes, Eomma." The words were a whisper.

"You didn't imagine this. You're not dreaming." Her words were slow, deliberate, each one a carefully placed stone building a bridge back to reality. "You're just standing exactly where you were always meant to land."

The simple, profound certainty in Geum-ja's voice broke through the last of Hyun-ju's shock. A fresh wave of tears welled, blurring the laundry pile into a soft, abstract landscape. She leaned sideways without thinking, pressing her forehead against the solid warmth of Gyeong-seok's shoulder. He absorbed her weight, his hand continuing its steady, grounding motion on her leg. She closed her eyes, letting the truth of the words wash over her.

The chaos on the other end of the line, however, had not abated.

"The cousin onesie is washed and ready!" Jun-hee's voice was a triumphant shout, closer now, as if she'd snatched the phone. "I told you it would be a boy! I knew it! The gremlin had a dream! Tell her it's real!"

"A boy?" Hyun-ju managed, her voice thick. "They didn't say…"

"It's twins!" Yongsik yelled, his voice now crystal clear, right next to the phone's microphone. "I'm telling you, it's going to be twins! We need to start looking at minivans. Gyeong-seok, are you hearing me? Do not get the one without the automatic sliding doors—"

The word twins seemed to echo for a moment, ricocheting off the quiet corners of the living room. Hyun-ju blinked, startled. Her eyes flicked to Gyeong-seok, wide and questioning. He looked just as stunned, mouth parted, brow raised, but he gave a helpless little shrug, as if to say, Don’t look at me.

"Yah!" Geum-ja's voice returned, sharp and commanding. "Give me back my phone! You're going to give the poor girl a heart attack before she's even had a chance to breathe."

More fumbling. Another distant crash. Someone, it sounded like Jun-hee, was laughing hysterically.

"Wait! Don't tell her about the double stroller I found online! Not yet! It's too soon! Forget I said anything!"

The sheer, loving absurdity of it all was too much. A sound bubbled up in Hyun-ju's chest, a wild, hiccupping noise that was half a sob and half a laugh. It broke free, and she was laughing, really laughing, through the tears that streamed down her face. Her body shook with the force of it, with the whiplash of the last fifteen minutes, from the crushing weight of silence to this tidal wave of joy and noise.

Gyeong-seok's hand squeezed her thigh. He leaned his head close to hers, his voice a low murmur against her ear, just for her.

"You okay?"

She couldn't speak. She just nodded, her face still buried in his shoulder, her laughter dissolving into quiet, shuddering breaths. She wiped her cheek against the rough cotton of his shirt.

On the phone, Geum-ja had apparently wrestled back control. The background noise receded. Her voice was low now, intimate, meant only for the two of them.

"You hear that, Hyun-ju? That's the sound of your family. They're loud and they're ridiculous, but they are yours." A beat of silence. "You are not alone in this. We've all been waiting with you. Every single one of us."

The words landed softly, a balm on the raw, frayed edges of her heart.

"But this part is yours. Now you get to lead. You're the Eomma now. It's your turn."

Hyun-ju finally lifted her head from Gyeong-seok's shoulder. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Her voice, when she spoke, was watery but steady.

"Thank you, Eomma."

"Don't thank me. Just be happy. And call me the minute you have a meeting scheduled. Yongsik is already trying to plan a welcome-home party, and I need to stop him before he hires a bounce house."

A fresh bubble of laughter escaped Hyun-ju. "I will."

"Good. We love you. Both of you."

"We love you, too." The words came from both of them at once, a quiet, heartfelt chorus.

Hyun-ju's finger hovered over the screen before she gently ended the call. The silence rushed back in, but it was different now. It was not empty. It was full. Full of peace, full of promise. She let the phone rest on the floor beside her.

She looked at Gyeong-seok, truly seeing him for the first time since the call. His eyes were red-rimmed but shining, his face etched with a relief so profound it seemed to have softened all his features. He looked at her, and his gaze was full of a quiet, wondering awe.

He didn't say a word. He just leaned in and pressed a slow, firm kiss to her temple. The touch was everything. A promise. A partnership. A home.

Hyun-ju let out a long, shuddering breath. It was a sound of complete and total release. The weight she had been carrying for months, for years, the weight of wanting, of waiting, of wondering if she was worthy, finally, finally lifted. She let her head fall back onto his shoulder, a soft, boneless surrender. The scent of him, of soap and sunshine and the faint, sweet smell of Na-yeon's crayons, filled her senses. She was home. And their family was about to grow.

☾ ☽ ☾

The house breathed around her, a slow, deep respiration of settling wood and quiet pipes. Down the hall, a thin blade of light from the bathroom sliced under Na-yeon's door, which was left ajar just enough to hear the soft, static whisper of her white noise machine, a constant shush against the dark. The world outside their windows was a muted tapestry of black and deep navy, stitched with the occasional passing headlight that swept across the living room ceiling and vanished.

Hyun-ju sat curled on the couch, a fortress of cushions behind her back and a thick wool blanket pooled at her feet. She had pulled on one of Gyeong-seok's old sweaters, the sleeves so long they swallowed her hands, the worn collar soft against her skin. The only light came from the laptop balanced on her knees, its blue-white glow painting her face in ethereal tones, carving her cheekbones from the shadows. Her expression was one of deep, quiet concentration. The frantic energy of the day, the giddy, tear-stained laughter, had dissolved, leaving behind this vast, still peace. She was simply looking.

Her finger traced slow, deliberate patterns on the trackpad. The screen was a mosaic of soft cottons and gentle neutrals. A grid of newborn onesies in shades of cream, dove gray, and pale sage. She clicked, and a new tab opened, displaying a minimalist wooden bassinet with crisp white bedding. Another click. A collection of wrap-style baby carriers, their fabric draped over invisible forms like soft, empty cocoons.

She moved with a reverence that felt like prayer. This was not shopping. It was a pilgrimage. Each image was a small, tangible piece of a future she was finally allowing herself to touch. Her cursor hovered over a picture of a single, simple cotton sleeper, patterned with tiny, sleeping moons. She zoomed in, her eyes tracing the delicate stitching along the collar, the row of impossibly small snaps running down the front. A sharp, sweet ache bloomed in her chest. Her hand, resting on the trackpad, gave a slight, betraying tremor. She swallowed, the motion thick and deliberate in her throat, and blinked slowly, her eyelids heavy for a moment too long. This was the first step. The first deliberate, conscious act of belief.

A floorboard creaked in the hallway.

She didn't startle. The sound was familiar, a part of the house's quiet language. Gyeong-seok appeared in the archway, a rumpled silhouette against the deeper dark behind him. He stood there for a moment, his form softened by sleep, one hand scratching absently at the back of his head. He saw her there, illuminated in the lonely glow of the screen, and his posture softened further. He watched her, his gaze taking in the oversized sweater, the rapt focus on her face, the way the light caught the curve of her cheek.

"Couldn't sleep?"

His voice was a low rasp, gravelly and warm.

She didn't look up immediately, her eyes still fixed on the screen.

"I was just… looking."

The words were quiet, a simple statement of fact. There was no defense in her tone, no apology. It was a confession offered into the stillness.

He didn't press. He walked into the room, his bare feet silent on the rug. He didn't sit beside her, but behind her, sinking into the cushions and drawing her back with a slow, easy confidence until she was nestled in the space between his legs. His arms came around her, folding across her waist. His hands, large and warm, came to rest on her stomach, his palms spreading wide as if to soothe the nervous flutter that still resided there. She leaned back into his solid frame, her head finding the natural hollow of his shoulder. The laptop remained balanced on her knees, a shared window.

His chin came to rest against her temple, his breath a warm puff of air that stirred the fine hairs at her neck. His voice was a murmur, lips close to her ear.

"Anything catch your eye?"

She let out a small, quiet breath.

"They're all so tiny."

The whisper was thick with awe, with a disbelief that felt ancient and new all at once. It was the sound of a universe being held in the palm of her hand.

"Smaller than you think," he agreed, his voice a low hum against her skin. "When we brought Na-yeon home, her hands were so small they couldn't even close around one of my fingers. They just… clung."

A faint smile touched her lips. "Did you cry?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. It was dusty. Very, very dusty in that hospital room."

She laughed, a soft, breathy sound that vibrated through both of them.

"Of course it was."

"Extremely dusty. And someone was cutting onions nearby. You know how it is."

"I'm starting to."

Her finger moved on the trackpad again, the motion less hesitant now, bolstered by his presence. She scrolled down the page of baby carriers, her eyes lingering on one made of a soft, oatmeal-colored linen.

"What about this one?"

"Looks… soft."

"It says it's good for newborns. It keeps them close."

"I like close." His arms tightened around her for a fraction of a second, a silent confirmation. "Is it complicated to put on? I don't want to have to watch a thirty-minute video every time we leave the house."

"It looks like you just… wrap it."

"I can wrap things. I wrapped all of Na-yeon's birthday presents last year."

"You used an entire roll of tape on a single book."

"The book is still wrapped. I call that a success." He pressed a light kiss to her hair. "Get the wrap. I'll figure it out."

Her heart did a little flip. Get the wrap. It was that simple. He had taken her fragile, tentative 'looking' and made it a plan. Her finger hovered over the 'add to cart' button. Not yet. She wasn't quite ready to cross that line.

She scrolled again, a new page loading with a product carousel at the bottom. She flicked past it, but not before her brain registered the image. Two identical sleepers, side-by-side. One printed with suns, the other with moons. A mirrored set.

Her body went still. A jolt went through her, sharp and electric. Yongsik's laughing, ridiculous pronouncement from the phone call echoed in her ears. Twins! Her hand twitched, and she swiped quickly at the trackpad, flicking the screen down, away from the image, before the thought could fully form, before her heart could catch up to the wild, impossible idea.

Gyeong-seok must have felt her tense. He pressed a slow, firm kiss to her temple.

"Hey."

"It's nothing. Just something unexpected,” she said quickly, brushing the image away.

He didn't question it. His voice was gentle, a soft balm on her sudden, jangled nerves.

"Let's just pick one thing. For now. One small thing. We'll figure out the rest later. Together."

She took a shaky breath, the air calming the frantic beat of her pulse. He was right. One thing. She scrolled back up the page, past the mirrored sleepers, her eyes seeking out the small, simple item that had first caught her eye.

She clicked on the image of the newborn cap. It was made of the same soft, organic cotton as the moon-printed sleeper, a simple, unadorned white. Perfect. A blank canvas. A beginning.

Gyeong-seok hummed in approval, his chin still resting on her shoulder.

"That one. That's the one."

"You think so?"

"Definitely. It looks like it's made of clouds." He paused. "Plus, it's white. It will go with everything. Very practical."

"It doesn't need to go with everything. It's a hat for a baby."

"You're underestimating the importance of a cohesive newborn wardrobe. We have a reputation to uphold."

"What reputation is that?"

"The 'our parents have excellent and very practical taste in cloud-based headwear' reputation. It's very exclusive."

She laughed again, the sound easier this time, lighter. The knot of tension in her chest loosened.

"You're ridiculous."

"I'm your ridiculous."

Her finger moved, tracing the outline of the 'add to cart' button. She took a breath, held it, and clicked.

The page refreshed. A small number '1' appeared in the icon of a shopping cart at the top of the screen.

It was done. A tiny digital step. A single line drawn in the sand. We are not just waiting anymore. We are preparing.

Her hands fell away from the laptop, her fingers finding his where they rested on her stomach. She laced her own through them, her palm resting flat against his. She leaned her head back fully against his chest, a complete surrender to the warmth and safety of his hold. The blue light of the screen illuminated the faint, happy sheen of tears in her eyes.

"It's real now, isn't it?"

Her voice was barely a whisper.

He turned his head, his lips brushing against her ear. His response was a low, certain murmur, a truth she was only just beginning to understand.

"It always was."

She closed her eyes, and let the quiet of the house hold them. The screen saver flickered on, a slow cascade of abstract shapes, the faint glow a silent witness in the dark. Outside, the world slept, unaware that inside this small, quiet house, a family was breathing in sync, their hands intertwined over a promise, waiting for a new life to begin.

Chapter Text

The air in the small meeting room was clean and still, smelling faintly of paper and lemon polish. A tall, leafy ficus stood sentinel in one corner, its waxy leaves gleaming under the recessed lighting. The walls were a soft, calming cream, adorned with framed photographs of smiling families—strangers holding hands, toddlers perched on shoulders, newborns swaddled in bright blankets. Each photo was a finished story, a happy ending that felt both impossibly distant and terrifyingly close.

Hyun-ju sat ramrod straight in her chair, the fabric of her skirt smooth and unwrinkled beneath her tense fingers. She had already smoothed it twice. Her gaze darted from the closed door to the empty water glasses on the polished table, then back to the door. The low, steady hum of the building's ventilation system seemed to vibrate in her teeth.

Gyeong-seok sat beside her, a picture of placid calm, his back resting comfortably against his chair. But under the table, his knee bounced, a small, frantic piston of stored energy. He saw her hands clutching her skirt, her knuckles pale. He slid his own hand across the cool surface of the table, resting it palm-up between them. A silent offering. Her hand found his without her ever looking away from the door, her cold fingers lacing through his warm ones. The contact was an anchor in the swirling sea of her nerves.

The door opened with a soft click.

Ms. Lee entered, her presence filling the room with a gentle, focused energy. She carried a familiar blue folder, the same shade as the one that had lived on their coffee table for what felt like a lifetime. Her smile was steady and warm, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that felt genuine.

"Hyun-ju, Gyeong-seok. I'm so glad you could make it."

"Of course. Thank you for seeing us so soon," Gyeong-seok's voice was even, betraying none of the nervous energy in his leg.

Hyun-ju simply nodded, her throat too tight for words.

"Did you have any trouble finding the office? The parking garage can be a bit of a labyrinth."

"Not at all. Your directions were perfect."

"Good, good." Ms. Lee sat opposite them, placing the blue folder squarely in the center of the table. She opened it, the pages neat and orderly within. She picked up a sleek black pen, its click echoing in the quiet room. "I know you must be anxious, so I won't draw things out. We have some wonderful news for you, and quite a lot of details to go over."

Hyun-ju's stomach performed a slow, sickening flip. Wonderful news. The words were a lifeline and a terror all at once. She focused on the tip of Ms. Lee's pen as it hovered over a blank notepad, a single, sharp point of black in a world that felt blurry and overwhelming. She could hear the blood thrumming in her ears, a frantic beat that drowned out the hum of the vents. She squeezed Gyeong-seok's hand. He squeezed back, his thumb rubbing a slow circle over her knuckles.

Ms. Lee's gaze was kind, her professionalism a comforting shield. "As you know from my call, the review committee met and unanimously approved your profile. They were very impressed with your application, your home visit, and the heartfelt letters from your references."

Hyun-ju managed a small, shaky exhale. She had known this part, but hearing it again, in this formal setting, made it feel more real, more solid.

"The matching process is a very careful and considered one," Ms. Lee continued, her voice soft but clear. "We look at everything. The needs of the child, the strengths of the family. We look for a connection that feels… right. In your case, a truly unique and wonderful opportunity presented itself just after your file was approved."

She paused, her eyes meeting Hyun-ju's, then Gyeong-seok's. "We believe we've found a perfect match for your family."

Hyun-ju's heart hammered against her ribs. This was it. The moment. The culmination of every quiet prayer, every frantic hope, every sleepless night.

Ms. Lee reached into the blue folder. She drew out not a document, but a single, glossy photograph, its edges crisp and white. She slid it across the polished table toward them.

It landed face up between their joined hands.

Hyun-ju’s gaze dropped, and her lungs seized. Two tiny swaddled bodies lay curled together in the same bassinet, wrapped in matching yellow blankets. One tuft of black hair, one bare head. Two pairs of dark, curious eyes tilted faintly toward each other, as if they already knew they belonged.

A profound silence descended upon the room, so deep and complete it felt like the world had stopped turning. She gave a sharp, audible hitch of breath. Beside her, Gyeong-seok leaned forward, his whole body shifting as if to get closer, to see better, to make certain his eyes were not deceiving him.

Ms. Lee's voice gently broke the stillness. "You've been matched… with twins. A girl and a boy."

The words hung in the air, luminous and terrifying and beautiful.

"Twins?"

The word was a puff of air from Hyun-ju's lips, a whisper so faint she wasn't sure she had said it aloud. She tasted it on her tongue. Fragile. Powerful. Impossible. Her gaze flickered from the photo to Ms. Lee's calm, smiling face, and back to the two tiny beings in the picture. The memory of Yong-sik's booming, joking voice on the phone—It's twins!—shot through her mind, a dizzying, preposterous premonition.

Beside her, Gyeong-seok's stunned silence broke. His eyebrows lifted high on his forehead, and a slow, wondering smile spread across his face, a look of pure, unadulterated awe.

"Two." He said the word as if it were a miracle, a number he had never truly understood before this moment.

"Two," Ms. Lee confirmed, her smile widening. "Fraternal twins. Born three weeks ago. Both are healthy and doing beautifully. The birth mother made a very brave and difficult decision, and she specifically requested a family that was open, stable, and already had a child who could be an older sibling. Your profile was a perfect fit."

Hyun-ju's mind was a kaleidoscope of flashing images. Two bassinets, side-by-side. The tiny white cloud-hat she had ordered, and another one right next to it. Na-yeon, her face beaming, a baby cradled in each arm. The sheer, overwhelming logistics of it all, two car seats, two high chairs, a double stroller, collided with a wave of joy so fierce it stole her breath.

She finally let go of Gyeong-seok's hand and reached out, her finger trembling as she touched the glossy surface of the photograph. She didn't trace a face. She just touched the edge, as if needing the sharp, physical reality of the paper to ground her. It was real. They were real.

Gyeong-seok spoke, his voice laced with a humor that couldn't quite mask his shock. "So, Jun-hee was wrong. And Yong-sik was right. I am never going to hear the end of this."

A startled, watery laugh escaped Hyun-ju. The sound broke the tension in her chest, letting the air rush back into her lungs.

"Does… does Na-yeon know she might be getting a minivan for her birthday?"

"I think she'd prefer a bounce house."

"Oh, God. Don't even say it."

They looked at each other then, truly looked. And in his eyes, she saw it all mirrored back at her, the shock, the fear, the absurdity, and beneath it all, a deep, bedrock certainty that was as unshakable as the earth. We can do this.

Ms. Lee watched their exchange, her expression one of quiet satisfaction. She had seen this moment a hundred times, but it never lost its power. "I know this is a lot to take in."

"It's… more than we let ourselves hope for," Hyun-ju said, her voice thick. "It's twice as much."

"In the best possible way," Gyeong-seok added, his gaze still fixed on the two faces in the photo. He looked utterly smitten.

"We'll give you all the support you need," Ms. Lee assured them, her tone shifting back to practical matters. She began to outline the next steps, her pen making neat, decisive marks on her notepad. "There's a bit more paperwork, of course. We'll need to formally update your file to reflect the match with two children. Then, we'll arrange a meeting for you with their current foster mother. She's a wonderful, experienced carer who can walk you through their feeding and sleeping schedules."

"When?" Hyun-ju asked, the question sharp with eagerness.

"We can schedule that for as early as next week, if you're ready."

"We're ready," Gyeong-seok said, without a moment's hesitation.

"And then…" Hyun-ju trailed off, her heart beginning to pound a new, frantic rhythm.

"And then," Ms. Lee said, her smile returning, "we schedule the day you bring them home."

The room fell silent again, but this time it was a silence filled with the heavy, beautiful weight of a future that had just snapped into focus.

Ms. Lee gathered her papers, sliding the photograph carefully back into the blue folder. "I'll email you a summary of everything we discussed, along with the updated forms. Please, take your time. Talk everything over. Call me with any questions you have, no matter how small."

She stood, and they rose with her. She extended her hand, first to Gyeong-seok, then to Hyun-ju. Her grip was firm and reassuring.

"Congratulations, again. I have a very good feeling about this. You're going to be a beautiful family of five."

They walked out of the meeting room in a daze, the folder clutched between them. The hallway felt brighter, the air lighter. They didn't speak as they waited for the elevator, the soft chime of its arrival a distant, unimportant sound. They stepped inside, the polished steel doors sliding shut, encasing them in a small, private world.

The elevator began its smooth descent. Gyeong-seok turned to her, his face alight with a quiet, miraculous joy. He squeezed her hand, his voice a low, wondering murmur.

"Two."

A smile, real and radiant, bloomed on Hyun-ju's face. She leaned her head against his shoulder as the elevator continued its silent journey downward, carrying them back to a world that was suddenly, irrevocably, and wonderfully twice as big as it had been an hour ago.

☾ ☽ ☾

The short walk from the car to Geum-ja's front door felt like crossing a vast, uncharted continent. The late afternoon sun slanted through the branches of the ginkgo tree lining the street, casting long, dancing shadows on the pavement. Hyun-ju clutched the blue folder to her chest, her knuckles white. The stiff cardboard felt both flimsy and impossibly heavy, a thin barrier protecting the explosive secret within.

From the other side of the door, a sudden peal of Na-yeon's laughter erupted, high and unrestrained. It was followed by the low, booming rumble of Yong-sik's voice, the cadence of a story reaching its exaggerated punchline. The sounds of life, warm and chaotic and utterly normal, washed over them. Hyun-ju stopped, her hand hovering just inches from the doorbell. Her feet felt rooted to the welcome mat.

Gyeong-seok watched her, his expression soft. The dazed joy that had carried them from the agency had solidified into a quiet, nervous gravity. He reached out, not to touch her, but just letting his hand hover near her elbow, a silent offer of support.

"Ready?"

His voice was a low murmur, meant only for her. Hyun-ju's gaze met his. She saw the same tremor of disbelief in his eyes that she felt in her own bones. She took a long, slow breath, filling her lungs with the cool air, and gave a single, decisive nod. His hand fell away as he lifted his own and knocked twice, a firm, solid sound against the dark wood.

The door swung open almost immediately. Geum-ja stood there, a floral apron tied over her sweater, a wooden spoon in one hand. Her face was lit with a welcoming smile that faltered the instant she saw their faces. Her sharp eyes took in Hyun-ju's pale complexion, the rigid set of her shoulders, and Gyeong-seok's tense-jawed stillness. The spoon in her hand stopped dripping.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

Before Hyun-ju could form a reply, the rich, savory scent of simmering bone broth and toasted sesame oil drifted out, wrapping around them like a warm blanket.

From the kitchen, Yong-sik's voice bellowed, unconcerned. "If that's the package from the department store, tell them they used the wrong address again! I am not paying for Jun-hee's embroidered pillowcases!"

"It's not the delivery guy, you fool!" Geum-ja called over her shoulder, her gaze never leaving Hyun-ju's face.

A flash of pink and a flurry of motion. Na-yeon shot out from behind Geum-ja, her hair a wild tangle, her beloved stuffed bunny clutched tight under one arm.

"Eomma! Appa! You're back!" She launched herself at them, wrapping her arms around Hyun-ju's legs, her face pressing into the fabric of her coat. "Halmeoni let me help make the soup and I didn't spill anything, and Uncle Yong-sik told me a story about a dragon who was scared of butterflies!"

Hyun-ju's hand left the folder to rest on Na-yeon's head, her fingers sinking into the soft, messy hair. The simple, solid reality of her daughter was an anchor in the swirling tide of her emotions.

"Hello, sweetie." Gyeong-seok's voice was warm as he bent to kiss the top of Na-yeon's head.

"Come in, come in. Don't just stand there letting all the heat out." Geum-ja stepped back, herding them inside with a wave of her spoon. "Take off your coats. You both look like you've seen a ghost."

They shuffled into the warmth of the living room. Yong-sik was sprawled in Geum-ja's favorite armchair, his long legs stretched out, ankles crossed. He held a floral teacup with two hands, looking entirely too comfortable, like a large, friendly bear that had wandered in and decided to stay. He beamed at them over the rim of the cup.

"There you are. I was starting to think you got lost. Did you bring snacks?"

"We are the snacks, apparently," Gyeong-seok muttered, nudging Yong-sik's feet off the ottoman as he passed.

Hyun-ju sat on the edge of the couch, placing the blue folder carefully on her lap. She couldn't let it go. Her hands immediately came to rest on top of it, pressing down, keeping it in place. Na-yeon squeezed into the space between her and Gyeong-seok, chattering on about the butterfly-fearing dragon, her small body a warm, vibrant presence.

Geum-ja disappeared into the kitchen and returned moments later with two steaming cups of barley tea, the nutty, roasted aroma filling the air. She set one in front of Gyeong-seok and placed the other on the coaster next to Hyun-ju. Her eyes lingered on her daughter, a silent, probing question in her gaze.

"So," Yong-sik said, setting his cup down with a clatter. "Don't keep us in suspense. You have the look of people who have either won the lottery or accidentally adopted a tiger. Which is it?"

"Yong-sik, for heaven's sake, let them breathe," Geum-ja chided, though she, too, had stopped moving, her attention fixed on them.

The room fell quiet. The only sounds were the soft ticking of the mantel clock and Na-yeon humming a little song to her bunny. Gyeong-seok turned to Hyun-ju, his expression steady. He gave her a small, almost imperceptible nod. Your stage. Your news.

Hyun-ju's throat felt tight, the words lodged behind a wall of emotion. She swallowed, her gaze drifting from Geum-ja's worried face to Yong-sik's open curiosity, and finally to Na-yeon, who was now trying to get Bunny to sip from an imaginary teacup. She took a breath.

"We had the meeting today."

Her voice was soft, barely a whisper, but it landed in the quiet room with the force of a thunderclap.

Na-yeon's head snapped up, her eyes going wide. She gasped, a small, dramatic sound, her hands flying to her mouth. Yong-sik, who had just picked his cup back up, froze with it halfway to his lips. He lowered it slowly, a grin spreading across his face.

Geum-ja simply closed her eyes for a brief second, a long, quiet exhale escaping her. It was the sound of a weight being set down. When she opened them again, her expression was calm, but she was waiting. She knew there was more.

Hyun-ju continued, her voice gaining a sliver of strength. "At the agency. They… they said yes."

"They said yes?" Na-yeon shrieked, scrambling to her knees on the couch cushion. "The baby is coming? We're getting the baby?"

"Yes, sweetie. We are." Gyeong-seok's hand found Na-yeon's back, rubbing a soothing circle. He looked from his ecstatic daughter to the stunned adults, a slow smile touching his own lips. He let the moment hang in the air, a perfect, shimmering bubble of joy. Then, with a deliberate, theatrical pause, he delivered the next line.

"And… it's not just one baby."

The bubble popped.

Yong-sik's jaw dropped. He stared at Gyeong-seok, his eyes wide with disbelief, then with dawning comprehension. He pointed the floral teacup at him like a weapon.

"Ha! I knew it! I told you! The universe listens to me!" he boomed, his voice triumphant. "You owe me a week's worth of galbi-jjim for doubting my prophetic abilities!"

Na-yeon just blinked, her head tilting in confusion, the joyous energy momentarily short-circuited.

"What? What does that mean?"

Hyun-ju looked at her daughter's perplexed face, and a real smile, watery but genuine, broke through her composure. She took a deep, shuddering breath, the one she'd been holding since she first saw the photograph.

"It means the baby has a brother. A twin brother." Her voice cracked on the last word. "It's a girl and a boy, Na-yeon."

A moment of pure, ringing silence. Na-yeon blinked once, then again, as if the words had to walk a long way to reach her. Her brows knit, lips parting in slow, dawning comprehension.— and across from her, Geum-ja’s hands came up to cover her mouth, her eyes glistening.

"Oh," she breathed, the sound full of a soft, reverent wonder. "Oh, my."

Then Na-yeon understood. Her face transformed, lit from within by a joy so pure and incandescent it seemed to fill the entire room. She let out a squeal that was part shout, part laugh, a sound of pure, unadulterated bliss.

"Two babies?" she shrieked, bouncing on the cushions so hard the whole couch shook. "I get two! A sister and a brother! Can they share my room? Bunny can sleep in the middle! We can play peek-a-boo all at the same time!"

The quiet, emotionally charged atmosphere shattered into a thousand pieces of happy chaos.

"Two cribs," Geum-ja said immediately, her practical grandmother mode kicking into high gear. She was already on her feet, pacing the rug. "You'll need two of everything. Double the diapers. Are the blankets you bought big enough? What about car seats? Your car won't fit three car seats across the back, will it?"

"We'll figure it out, Eomeonim," Gyeong-seok said, laughing as he tried to catch a bouncing Na-yeon before she launched herself off the couch.

Yong-sik leaned back in his chair, looking immensely pleased with himself. He turned his smug grin on Gyeong-seok.

"You realize what this means, don't you? You're going to be hopelessly outnumbered. That's three girls in the house. Three! Four if you count your mother-in-law, which you should. It's over for you, my friend. Start digging the foundation for a man cave in the backyard now. It's your only hope."

Gyeong-seok finally managed to coral Na-yeon, pulling her into his lap. He smirked at Yong-sik over her head.

"I'll build one. But it's going to have a lock on the door, and you're not getting a key."

"Rude! After I single-handedly manifested this miracle for you?"

"You didn't manifest anything. You made a lucky guess while eating leftover pizza."

"It was a very insightful guess! I sensed a twin-like energy in the pepperoni!"

Amid the swirling storm of questions and laughter and teasing, Hyun-ju felt a profound stillness settle over her. She finally, carefully, lifted the blue folder from her lap and opened it. She slid the photograph out and held it in both hands. Two tiny faces stared back at her. Her children. The thought was still so new, so fragile, it felt like holding her breath.

She was vaguely aware of the happy noise around her, Na-yeon asking if she could teach the babies how to draw a butterfly-fearing dragon, Yong-sik arguing that he should be named godfather to both, Geum-ja muttering about knitting two sets of booties in different colors. But it all seemed to recede, becoming a warm, fuzzy backdrop.

She felt a gaze on her and looked up, meeting Gyeong-seok's eyes across the chaos. He was still smiling, his face alight with a joy that mirrored her own, but his look was steady, deep, and just for her. It was a silent conversation that passed between them in a single heartbeat. Look at this. We did this. We've got this. We're not alone.

A warm, firm hand settled on her knee. She turned to find Geum-ja standing beside the couch, her earlier flurry of practical concerns replaced by a quiet, powerful calm. Geum-ja wasn't looking at Hyun-ju; her eyes were fixed on the photograph in her hands.

"They're beautiful," Geum-ja said, her voice low and thick with emotion. Her hand squeezed Hyun-ju's knee, a grounding, certain pressure. "Just look at them. They were waiting for you."

Hyun-ju's vision blurred. She nodded, unable to speak past the lump in her throat.

The overlapping chatter swirled back into focus, a symphony of her future.

"I'm going to be the best big sister in the whole world," Na-yeon declared to Bunny, who was now being introduced to the concept of sharing toys.

"I'm telling you, a minivan is the only way," Yong-sik insisted. "The one with the built-in vacuum cleaner. It will change your life."

"You're not buying them a minivan, Yong-sik. They need clothes. And a freezer full of soup."

Geum-ja smiled, a soft, slow smile that held all the love in the world, and looked from the photograph to Hyun-ju's tear-streaked, happy face. Hyun-ju leaned her head against Gyeong-seok's shoulder, holding the picture of her two new children close, and let the joyful noise of her ridiculous, loud, wonderful, growing family wash over her.

☾ ☽ ☾

The heavy wooden door clicked shut behind them, muffling the sound of Yong-sik's boisterous laughter to a low, distant rumble. The air outside was cool and clean, carrying the crisp scent of approaching night. It felt like stepping from a bright, crowded theater into a quiet, star-dusted street. Streetlights cast cones of pale gold onto the sidewalk.

Na-yeon, still buzzing with an energy that defied gravity, skipped ahead of them on the path to the car, her small feet making soft, rhythmic thumps on the concrete. Bunny was clutched in one hand, a silent co-conspirator.

"And we'll need two toothbrushes. A pink one and a blue one. And two little step-stools for the sink, but not until they're bigger. And maybe two rocking horses! Can we get two rocking horses, Appa?"

Hyun-ju watched her daughter's bouncing ponytail disappear around the corner of a parked car. She let out a long, slow breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Gyeong-seok caught her eye, a faint, weary smile touching his lips. It was a look that needed no words—a shared acknowledgment of survival, a silent toast to having navigated the wonderful, exhausting storm of their family.

Inside the car, the familiar smell of leather and faint, lingering crayons enveloped them. Na-yeon scrambled into her booster seat, her chatter never ceasing as Gyeong-seok clicked her buckle into place.

"And two sets of pajamas! Matching ones! Maybe with little bears on them. And we'll have to teach them both my secret handshake. But Bunny has to learn it first so he can teach them properly."

Gyeong-seok slid into the driver's seat, the engine turning over with a quiet hum. Hyun-ju leaned her head against the cool glass of the passenger window, the city lights blurring into long streaks of color as they pulled away from the curb. Na-yeon's voice became a soft, happy murmur in the background, a soundtrack to the swirling thoughts in her own mind.

One hand on the wheel, Gyeong-seok's other hand found her thigh, his palm warm and firm through the fabric of her jeans. The simple, solid pressure was an anchor.

"It's… a lot."

Her voice was low, almost lost beneath her daughter's ongoing monologue about shared toys.

He didn't look at her, his eyes on the road, but his thumb traced a slow, reassuring line against her leg.

"It's everything." He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Two of everything.”

Her chest tightened, not from anxiety this time, but from the strange, giddy weight of the truth. Two car seats. Two tiny hats. Two little heartbeats waiting for them.

Hyun-ju closed her eyes. "I can't stop seeing them. The picture. Their faces, just… side by side."

"And their little hands," Gyeong-seok added, his voice soft. "I keep picturing their little hands."

"And all that hair on the one, and none on the other."

"I'm not picturing them. Not really." He glanced at her then, a quick, warm look. "I keep seeing Na-yeon. Standing between two cribs, beaming, like she just conquered the world."

Hyun-ju opened her eyes. A small, genuine laugh escaped her. "And she has. She absolutely has."

"She's already planning their entire lives. Did you hear the part about the matching rocking horses?"

"I heard. She's appointing Bunny as their primary educator."

"A solemn and important duty."

The car filled with a soft, shared warmth that had nothing to do with the heater. In the back seat, Na-yeon had finally wound down, her voice trailing off into a soft hum. Her head nodded against the side of her booster seat, her grip on Bunny slackening in sleep.

They turned onto their own street. The headlights swept across the familiar facade of their house, illuminating the front hedge, the neat path to the door, the dark windows. It looked exactly the same as it had when they left. But it wasn't. She felt a profound shift deep in her bones. The house was no longer just a place they lived. It felt expectant. It was waiting.

Gyeong-seok pulled into the driveway and cut the engine. The sudden silence was deep and profound. For a long moment, no one moved. He reached over and took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers on the center console. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic breathing of their daughter in the back seat. In the stillness between the engine's quieting hum and the inevitable click of unbuckling seatbelts, she could almost feel it, the future, no longer a distant hope, but a tangible presence, moving closer with every beat of her own heart.

Chapter Text

The apartment building was a modest brick structure, indistinguishable from the dozen others that lined the quiet, residential street. A row of neatly pruned azalea bushes stood beneath the ground-floor windows, their leaves a glossy, uniform green. The air smelled of damp earth and the faint, distant exhaust of city traffic. Hyun-ju stood on the pavement, her hands clenched into fists inside the pockets of her coat. Her heart beat a frantic, irregular rhythm against her ribs, a wild bird trapped in a cage of her own making.

Gyeong-seok came to stand beside her, his shoulder brushing against hers. He didn't speak, just took in the clean, anonymous facade of the building. Ms. Lee, holding her brightly colored planner like a shield, waited patiently by the intercom panel, her expression calm and unreadable.

"It's okay to be nervous." Ms. Lee's voice was soft, a gentle intrusion into the roaring silence of Hyun-ju's mind.

Hyun-ju's throat was a desert. She could only nod, a short, jerky motion.

"I feel like I'm about to walk into the most important job interview of my life." Gyeong-seok's attempt at levity was a thin wire stretched taut. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers slightly unsteady. "Except I already have the job. I think. Is this the performance review?"

"Think of it as the orientation," Ms. Lee corrected gently, her lips twitching into a small smile. She pressed the button for the apartment number. A moment of static, and then a clear, calm voice buzzed through the speaker.

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Choi, it's Ms. Lee from Seoul Family Connections. We're here."

"Of course. Come on up. It's the second floor, first door on your left."

The lock buzzed, a harsh, electric sound that jolted Hyun-ju from her paralysis. Gyeong-seok placed a hand on the small of her back, a warm, solid pressure that urged her forward.

The hallway inside was immaculate, smelling of bleach and old linoleum. Each step they took up the concrete stairs seemed to echo, amplifying the frantic thud of her own pulse. When they reached the second floor, the door was already open a crack, a sliver of warm, yellow light spilling into the dim corridor. A woman stood in the opening, her frame small and her smile kind. Her hair was pulled back in a neat bun, and she wore a simple, clean apron over her clothes.

"Welcome. Please, come in."

The apartment was small and tidy, every surface polished, every object in its place. A neat stack of magazines sat on a low coffee table. The air was warm and still, carrying a soft, clean scent that was instantly recognizable and utterly foreign. Baby powder. Formula. The subtle, milky sweetness of new life. It was a smell that bypassed thought and went straight to the heart. Hyun-ju felt her lungs tighten.

"Hyun-ju, Gyeong-seok, this is Mrs. Choi. She has been caring for the twins since they left the hospital."

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Mrs. Choi said, her voice the same calm, clear tone from the intercom. She bowed her head slightly. "Thank you for coming."

"Thank you for having us," Gyeong-seok managed, his own bow a little too deep, a little too eager. "Thank you for… everything."

Hyun-ju bowed, the movement stiff. The words were a knot in her throat. She could only look at this kind, gentle woman, this stranger who had held her children, fed them, soothed their cries in the dead of night. A wave of gratitude so fierce it bordered on pain washed over her.

"They've just had their bottles. They're sleeping now." Mrs. Choi's eyes were soft, perceptive. She seemed to understand the overwhelming silence that had claimed Hyun-ju. "They're very good sleepers, most of the time. Would you like to see them?"

The question hung in the air, a fragile, shimmering thing. Hyun-ju could only nod again, her gaze fixed on the closed door at the end of the short hallway.

Mrs. Choi led them forward. The floorboards were silent beneath her soft slippers. Gyeong-seok's hand found Hyun-ju's, his fingers cold but his grip firm, lacing through hers. He held on as if he, too, were afraid he might float away.

The room was small, its walls painted a pale, soothing yellow. The only furniture was a changing table, a comfortable-looking armchair, and two simple wooden bassinets, placed side-by-side near the window. A sheer white curtain diffused the afternoon light, filling the space with a soft, ethereal glow.

And there they were.

Hyun-ju’s breath caught, sharp, audible. Everything else in the universe, the quiet room, the gentle light, the three adults standing in the doorway, fell away. There was only the sight of them. Two tiny, perfect forms, curled beneath matching white blankets. They lay on their backs, their small bodies turned instinctively toward each other, a magnetic pull that persisted even in sleep.

One had a thick cap of dark, unruly hair that stuck up in soft tufts. The other's head was nearly bare, covered only in a fine, downy fuzz. Their chests rose and fell in a quiet, synchronous rhythm. The soft sigh of their breathing was the only sound in the world.

Gyeong-seok's grip on her hand tightened. He leaned closer to her, his whisper a breath of air against her ear.

"Hyun-ju. Look."

She was looking. She couldn't look away. She felt as though she had been waiting her entire life for this single, sacred moment. The photograph had been a shadow. This was the substance. This was real.

"The little boy is Tae-joon. And the girl is Ha-na." Mrs. Choi's voice was a gentle murmur, careful not to disturb the peace.

Ha-na. Tae-joon. The names they had chosen, whispered into the darkness of their own bedroom, now had faces. They had form. They had weight.

Ha-na, the one with the fuzz of hair, stirred in her sleep. Her tiny mouth worked for a moment, a small, reflexive motion. Her fist, no bigger than a walnut, came up to rest against her cheek. Tae-joon, beside her, let out a soft, squeaking sigh and shifted, his small body turning even closer to his sister's.

Mrs. Choi moved silently to the first bassinet. "She is usually the first to wake up. Would you like to hold her?"

The question was directed at Hyun-ju. She felt a jolt of pure, unadulterated terror, followed immediately by a longing so profound it was a physical ache. She looked from the impossibly small baby to her own empty, trembling hands.

"I…" She swallowed, her voice a dry rasp. "I don't want to wake her."

"It's alright. She needs to get used to your scent. Your touch."

Ms. Lee stepped forward slightly, her presence a quiet reassurance. "Go on, Hyun-ju. It's okay."

Gyeong-seok gave her hand a final, encouraging squeeze before letting go. Hyun-ju stepped forward, her legs feeling unsteady, as if she were walking on water. She stood over the bassinet, her shadow falling across the sleeping infant. Ha-na's face was so placid, so perfect. Her eyelashes were impossibly fine, two dark, feathery crescents against her pale skin.

Mrs. Choi moved with an easy, practiced grace. She slid one hand under the baby's neck and head, the other under her small, blanket-wrapped body, and lifted her from the bassinet in a single, fluid motion.

"Here. Sit in the chair. It will be more comfortable."

Hyun-ju did as she was told, sinking into the soft cushions of the armchair. She held her arms out, a stiff, awkward cradle.

"Support her head here, in the crook of your arm." Mrs. Choi's voice was a calm, steady guide. "That's it. Just let her settle."

And then she was there. A warm, impossibly fragile weight in her arms. Hyun-ju's entire body went rigid. Ha-na was so much smaller, so much lighter than she had ever imagined. She could feel the delicate structure of her bones through the soft blanket. Her tiny head, heavy and precious, rested against her arm. She smelled of milk and clean cotton.

A tear escaped Hyun-ju's eye, tracing a hot, silent path down her cheek. She didn't dare move to wipe it away. She couldn't speak. She could only stare down at the perfect, miniature face, her heart swelling with an emotion so vast and powerful it had no name. She lifted one trembling finger and gently, tentatively, traced the curve of Ha-na's ear. The skin was like silk.

Ha-na stirred at the touch. Her eyelids fluttered, then opened. Her eyes were a deep, dark gray, cloudy and unfocused, but they seemed to look right through Hyun-ju, into the very core of her soul. She let out a small, contented sigh and snuggled deeper into the warmth of Hyun-ju's arms. The world stopped turning.

Across the room, Mrs. Choi lifted Tae-joon from his bassinet. He stretched, his arms and legs extending in a sudden, jerky motion, a tiny, disgruntled frown creasing his brow.

"This one is the noisy one." Mrs. Choi's smile was fond. She turned to Gyeong-seok.

Gyeong-seok took the baby with a reverence that made his large hands seem impossibly gentle. He held Tae-joon against his chest, his gaze full of a wondering, incredulous awe. Tae-joon's head, with its shock of dark hair, fit perfectly in the palm of his hand.

"Hello," Gyeong-seok whispered, his voice thick. "Well, hello there."

Tae-joon blinked up at him, his expression serious, as if he were carefully considering this large, new person. He yawned, a wide, comical, jaw-cracking yawn that made his whole body shudder. Gyeong-seok laughed, a low, shaky sound.

"He gets hiccups when he's startled," Mrs. Choi offered, her voice a soft repository of knowledge. "And he sleeps a little longer than she does, but when he's hungry, he lets you know. He has a very strong set of lungs."

"A strong set of lungs is good," Gyeong-seok murmured, his thumb gently stroking the baby's cheek. "You'll need those to be heard over your big sister."

Hyun-ju listened to the words, each small detail landing with the weight of scripture. Hiccups. A strong cry. These were not abstract facts. They were the building blocks of a person. She looked down at Ha-na, who was now drifting back to sleep in her arms.

"And her?" Hyun-ju's voice was a raw whisper.

"She likes to be swaddled very tightly. It makes her feel secure. And she makes this little sighing sound just before she falls asleep. Like this." Mrs. Choi made a soft, breathy sound. "She'll do it every time."

"She just did it." The words were full of wonder.

"She trusts you already."

The simple statement was a gift. Hyun-ju closed her eyes, committing the feeling to memory: the weight of her daughter in her arms, the soft warmth of her breath against her skin, the clean, milky scent of her. Her daughter. The words echoed in her mind, a quiet, joyful bell.

"Would you like to switch?”

Mrs. Choi’s voice was a quiet thread pulling her back. Hyun-ju’s chest clenched at the thought of letting go, but then she saw Gyeong-seok’s face, open and aching, and knew he needed this just as much as she did.

She nodded, wordless. Their arms moved carefully, the exchange a tender, fumbling choreography.

“Support his head.”

“I’ve got him.”

Then Tae-joon was in her arms, and Ha-na was in his. Tae-joon felt different. A little heavier, a little more solid. He wriggled, his limbs restless, his tiny fists batting at the air. He smelled the same, that beautiful, clean baby smell, but his energy was a different frequency. A low, thrumming hum. She pulled him closer, pressing a kiss to his wild tuft of hair. It was softer than she could have imagined.

Gyeong-seok was looking down at Ha-na with a goofy, lovestruck smile. "She has your eyes, you know."

"She has my eyes?" A watery laugh escaped her. "She's not even looking at you."

"Doesn't matter. I can tell. They're wise and a little bit stubborn. Just like her Eomma."

He rocked her gently, humming a low, tuneless melody. Ha-na, who had started to fuss at the transition, quieted instantly, her small body relaxing against his broad chest.

The minutes passed in a silent, golden haze. It felt like an eternity and no time at all. Hyun-ju simply held her son, her gaze tracing every line of his face, every tiny, perfect detail. His impossibly small fingernails. The little crease between his eyebrows. The soft, vulnerable pulse beating at his temple. Her son.

A small, fretful cry broke the stillness. It was Ha-na. Her face was scrunched up, her mouth open in a perfect 'O'. Tae-joon, as if on cue, let out a sympathetic whimper.

Mrs. Choi stepped forward, her expression kind but firm. "I think that's enough for today. They're getting a little overstimulated. They need to settle and rest now."

The words were a physical blow. Hyun-ju's arms tightened instinctively around Tae-joon. Let him go? Now? It felt impossible. A raw, protective ache bloomed in her chest.

Ms. Lee nodded, stepping in to smooth the transition. "That's perfectly normal for a first visit. We always keep these introductions short for their well-being. It's important not to disrupt their routine too much at once. Each time you visit, you'll get to stay a little longer."

Gyeong-seok looked at Ha-na, his face etched with a longing that mirrored Hyun-ju's own. He held her for one more second, his gaze lingering on her face, before he gently, reluctantly, surrendered her to Mrs. Choi.

Hyun-ju's turn. She looked down at Tae-joon, whose whimpers were escalating into a real cry. She wanted to soothe him, to rock him, to whisper that she was here and she would never leave. But she couldn't. Not yet. She leaned down and pressed a slow, firm kiss to his forehead.

"It's okay," she whispered, the words for herself as much as for him. "Eomma will be back soon."

She handed him over, her arms suddenly, painfully empty. The loss of his weight was a physical shock. Mrs. Choi took him, her movements calm and efficient. She held one baby against each shoulder, murmuring to them in a low, soothing voice. Their cries softened almost immediately into small, hiccupping sobs.

She placed them back in their bassinets. At once, their small bodies tilted toward each other, as if pulled by gravity. Ha-na’s hand slipped free of her blanket, brushing against her brother’s. Two small shapes, drawn back into one.

Hyun-ju and Gyeong-seok stood side-by-side, their hands clasped tightly, two silent, unmoving statues watching their children sleep. The ache in Hyun-ju's chest was a vast, hollow space.

Ms. Lee smiled softly, her voice a gentle anchor in the sea of emotion. "The next visit is already on the calendar. Friday, at the same time. You'll be back very soon."

Very soon. The words were a promise, but they felt like a lifetime away.

They followed Mrs. Choi out of the room, leaving the door ajar. As they walked back down the hallway, Hyun-ju could hear the soft, static whisper of a white noise machine starting up, a gentle shush against the quiet of the afternoon. The sound was a final, painful reminder of the life that was continuing here, without them.

At the front door, Mrs. Choi turned to them, her smile warm and genuine. "They are wonderful babies. You are very lucky."

"We know," Gyeong-seok said, his voice husky. "Thank you. For taking such good care of them."

"It has been my honor."

The walk back to the car was a blur. The space outside seemed too loud, too bright, too harsh after the sacred quiet of that small, yellow room. They didn't speak until they were both inside the car, the doors shut, encased in their own private bubble of silence.

Hyun-ju stared out the window, her vision swimming. She could still feel the phantom weight of a baby in her arms, smell the ghost of milk and powder on her sweater.

Gyeong-seok started the car, the engine a low hum. He didn't put it in gear. He just sat there, his hands resting on the steering wheel.

"Did you see the birthmark?" His voice was low, reverent.

"What?" She turned to him, her brows furrowed.

"Ha-na. A tiny little mark, just behind her left ear. Like a little drop of ink."

Hyun-ju's breath caught. She hadn't seen it. She had been so overwhelmed, so focused on the whole, she had missed the tiny, specific detail. A fresh wave of longing, sharp and painful, washed over her. There was so much she didn't know. So much she had yet to learn.

“I need to go back,” she whispered, the words breaking loose like a confession. “I need to go back right now.”

He reached across the console, his eyes bright with the same raw ache. His fingers closed firmly around hers.

“I know. I want to, too. But not today.” A beat of silence, then, softer, steadier: “Friday. Friday is soon. We can make it to Friday.”

☾ ☽ ☾

The short drive to Geum-ja's house was a silent pact. The atmosphere outside the car windows moved on, oblivious, a blur of neon signs and headlights. Inside, the air was thick with unspoken things, the phantom weight of babies in their arms, the lingering scent of milk and powder, the raw, hollow ache of leaving. Hyun-ju stared at her own reflection in the dark glass, seeing a stranger with shadowed eyes and a story she didn't yet know how to tell.

They parked. The engine died, plunging them into a stillness that felt heavier than the silence on the drive. Gyeong-seok's hand covered hers on the center console, a warm, solid pressure that said everything he couldn't. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low rasp.

"We can just sit here for a minute."

She shook her head, a small, tight motion. "No. If we sit, I won't get out."

The front door of Geum-ja's house opened before they reached the top step, spilling a wedge of golden light onto the dark porch. Geum-ja stood silhouetted in the doorway, a dish towel in her hand, her posture rigid with a tense, waiting energy. She didn't smile. Her eyes, sharp and knowing, scanned their faces, taking in the faint puffiness around Hyun-ju's eyes, the weary slump of Gyeong-seok's shoulders.

Before she could speak, a blur of motion shot past her.

"Eomma! Appa!"

Na-yeon skidded to a halt in her socks, her momentum carrying her right into Hyun-ju's legs. Bunny was wedged firmly under one arm. Her face, tilted up, was a beacon of pure, unfiltered excitement.

"Did you see them? Were they cute? Do they like me? Are they very, very small? Do they know I'm their big sister already? Did you tell them?"

The questions came in a breathless torrent, each one a tiny, innocent arrow that pierced the fragile shield around Hyun-ju's heart. She opened her mouth to answer, but the words were gone, replaced by a thick, rising tide of emotion. Her throat closed.

Gyeong-seok stepped in, his movements fluid. He crouched down, gathering Na-yeon into a hug that was as much for himself as for her. He buried his face in her messy hair, his voice muffled.

"They were perfect, sweetie. Absolutely perfect."

Geum-ja's gaze remained fixed on Hyun-ju. She folded the dishtowel with a series of sharp, decisive snaps. Her voice cut through the emotional haze with brisk, unwavering practicality.

"You'll need cribs. Bottles. Don't leave it until the last minute thinking you have time." She vanished into the kitchen, her voice carrying back to them, a running commentary of necessity. "Diapers. Formula. Blankets. Two car seats. Do you even know how fast they'll outgrow the newborn size? Better get the bigger ones too, save yourself a trip later."

She reappeared a moment later, a scrap of paper from a notepad in one hand and a pen in the other. She scribbled on the small surface, her movements sharp, her brow furrowed in concentration.

Hyun-ju finally found her voice, a weak, frayed thing. "Eomma, it's late. Maybe we should wait…"

Geum-ja didn't even look up from her list. She swatted the air in the direction of the protest, dismissing it entirely.

"Babies don't wait. They arrive. You need at least something ready in the house before you go back. You can't walk into that home again with nothing in your own to show for it."

Na-yeon, who had been listening with rapt attention, gasped. The sound was pure, theatrical revelation. Her eyes went wide.

"We can go shopping? Tonight? For the babies?" She wriggled free of Gyeong-seok's arms, her whole body vibrating. "I want to pick things too! I have to! I'm their big sister, it's my job!"

Her excitement was a spark in the heavy air. It was a simple, uncomplicated joy that cut through the complex layers of Hyun-ju's awe and grief. She felt a pull, a gentle tug out of the stunned fog she'd been lost in. Gyeong-seok looked at her, his eyes asking a silent question, reading the flicker of exhaustion and hesitation on her face. Then, seeing the fierce, hopeful determination in his daughter's, he answered for them both.

"Alright. Tonight."

A shriek of triumph from Na-yeon. Geum-ja nodded once, her task complete. She folded the small, wrinkled list and pressed it firmly into Hyun-ju's hand. Then she turned, pulled a large, sturdy tote bag from a hook in her pantry, and handed it to Gyeong-seok.

"Start small," she commanded, her tone softening just a fraction as she met Hyun-ju's gaze. "You don't need a palace. Just diapers, bottles, and a safe place for them to sleep." A pause, then her voice dropped, losing its commanding edge, becoming something warmer, something that felt like a hand on the heart. "The rest will come."

☾ ☽ ☾

The lights of the department store were a violent shock to the system. They hummed with a flat, sterile intensity, bleaching the color from everything, from the gleaming linoleum floors to the endless rows of merchandise. The air buzzed with the distant beep of cash registers, the squeak of cart wheels, and the tinny, cheerful melody of store music. It was a different universe from the sacred, sunlit quiet of the foster home. Hyun-ju blinked, her eyes watering against the glare, feeling raw and exposed.

Gyeong-seok took charge, his hand firm on the handle of the shopping cart. He nudged her gently forward.

"First on the list, Eomeonim's orders: diapers." He steered them toward a towering wall of brightly colored packages. "Okay. We have newborn, size one, sensitive, overnight, eco-friendly… I have no idea what a 'latch system' is, but I think we'll need it."

The quiet joke was an anchor. It gave her a place to focus. She clutched the folded, wrinkled list in her hand, its sharp corners digging into her palm.

Na-yeon, however, was in her element. She darted ahead, her sneakers squeaking with each excited step, a small general surveying her new territory. She tugged random items from shelves, presenting them with solemn importance.

"Look, Eomma! A pacifier shaped like a bear! And bibs with little carrots on them! They'll fit in my hands, see how tiny!"

She held up a set of folded bibs, her small fingers barely spanning their width. Hyun-ju reached out and touched the soft cotton. A laugh escaped her, a shaky, watery sound that was more sob than mirth.

"Yes, sweetie. They're very tiny."

They turned a corner and came to a stop. Before them stood an entire aisle of cribs, lined up like silent, empty soldiers. White, oak, dark cherry. Some were simple and spare, others ornate. Foldable ones for travel, convertible ones that promised to grow with a child. The sheer number of choices was dizzying.

Hyun-ju's hand went out, her fingers gripping the smooth, painted railing of a simple white model. Two of them. The thought slammed into her with the force of a physical blow. The reality of it, the solid, wooden fact of it. Two tiny bodies to lay down each night. Two sets of cries in the dark. Two lives, entirely, completely dependent on them for everything. Her breath caught in her chest.

A warm, solid arm slid around her back. Gyeong-seok leaned in, his cheek close to her hair.

"Hey. We don't need to choose the perfect one right now. Just a safe one. That's all they need." He squeezed her gently. "Two safe ones."

His voice was a steady current beneath the frantic surface of her thoughts. She took a breath, then another. He was right. Safe. That was all that mattered.

They flagged down a young clerk who looked barely out of his teens. He blinked at their request.

"Two? Of the same one?"

"Yes. Two." Gyeong-seok's voice was firm, confident. "The simple white one. Can we have them delivered?"

As the clerk tapped information into his handheld device, Hyun-ju watched, her heart thudding a slow, heavy rhythm. The transaction felt monumental, a formal declaration. They were hammering the first nails into the foundation of this new, terrifying, beautiful life.

"Delivery scheduled for Wednesday morning," the clerk announced, tearing a receipt from his machine. "Will that work for you?"

"That's perfect," Hyun-ju said, the words coming out stronger than she expected. Wednesday. They would be here on Wednesday.

With the largest decision made, a small measure of the tension eased. Na-yeon, who had been patiently waiting, declared it was time for the most important part. She led them with purpose to the stuffed animal aisle, a rainbow of soft, plush creatures.

She planted her feet, placing Bunny on the floor beside her as if for consultation. She moved with the serious air of a world-renowned expert, testing the plushness of a floppy-eared dog, considering the gentle expression of a knitted bear. She rejected a lamb as "too sleepy" and a giraffe as "too tall for a baby."

Finally, she stopped. On a low shelf sat a collection of simple rabbits. She picked up two, one with a soft blue ribbon around its neck, one with a yellow one. They were identical in every other way. She held them up, one in each hand, her expression one of deep satisfaction.

"These." Her pronouncement was final. "So they can match, but not be the same. Like them."

She walked to Hyun-ju and pressed the yellow-ribboned rabbit into her hands. The plush was impossibly soft.

"This one is for Ha-na. She'll need it to sleep. Bunny says so."

Hyun-ju's throat tightened. She had to turn her head away, blinking rapidly at a display of colorful rattles, the plastic shapes blurring into a meaningless smear. It was absurd. It was perfect. It was the most unbearably tender thing she had ever witnessed. She could only nod, unable to speak, and clutch the small, yellow-ribboned rabbit to her chest.

The cart was full now, a chaotic jumble of their new reality. Diapers and wipes. Rows of glass bottles. Canisters of formula. Two small, simple hats. And nestled on top, Na-yeon's chosen rabbits. At the register, the cashier worked with a bored, practiced efficiency, each item beeping as it passed over the scanner.

Beep. A package of newborn onesies, folded into a neat, impossibly small square. Hyun-ju's hand trembled as she placed it on the counter. She could almost feel the delicate weight of a baby inside the soft cotton.

Beep. The bottles, their nipples protected by clear plastic caps.

Beep. The blue-ribboned rabbit. Beep. The yellow-ribboned rabbit.

Each sound was a bell, tolling them further and further away from the life they had known, and deeper into the one that was waiting. She watched the items slide down the conveyor belt, a parade of their hopes and fears made tangible.

The drive home was quiet. The trunk was stuffed with bags, rustling with every turn. The long, fluttering receipt lay on the dashboard, a proclamation written in black ink. A quiet settled over the car, a comfortable exhaustion replacing the raw, aching tension of before.

In the back seat, Na-yeon was curled into the side of her booster seat, fast asleep. Her head was pillowed on her own shoulder, her breathing deep and even. She was clutching the two new rabbits to her chest, her beloved Bunny wedged protectively between them.

The streetlights cast fleeting patterns of light and shadow across her peaceful face. Hyun-ju watched her in the rearview mirror, her heart so full it felt like it might break.

She turned her head, her voice a whisper in the warm, dark car, almost afraid to break the spell.

"It feels real now."

Gyeong-seok was silent for a moment, his eyes on the road ahead. He took one hand from the wheel and found hers, his fingers lacing through her own, a familiar, grounding pressure. His answer, when it came, was just as soft, a murmur of absolute certainty against the hum of the engine.

"It always was. But now, we're ready for them."

☾ ☽ ☾

The delivery truck arrived on Wednesday morning, its engine a low grumble that vibrated through the floorboards. It was large and white, blocking the sun from the living room window as it backed into their driveway with a series of loud, insistent beeps. Na-yeon pressed her face to the glass, her breath fogging a small circle.

"It's here! The baby beds are here!"

Two men in blue uniforms wrestled the heavy, flat-packed boxes down a ramp. Gyeong-seok signed a clipboard with a flourish, then stood on the front step, hands on his hips, surveying the large cardboard rectangles leaning against their house like fallen monoliths.

"Well. There's our afternoon."

"Can we build them now, Appa? Right now?" Na-yeon bounced on the balls of her feet, her voice vibrating with an energy that could power a small city.

"We have to get them inside first, sweetie. And then Appa has to… read the instructions." He said the last two words with a profound lack of enthusiasm, a man staring down his own personal Everest.

The living room became a workshop. Gyeong-seok, armed with a small bag of screws and a tiny, L-shaped allen key, knelt on the floor surrounded by pieces of smooth, white-painted wood. The instruction manual, a flimsy pamphlet of cryptic diagrams, lay open beside him. He squinted at a drawing of a disembodied hand turning a screw labeled 'C' into a hole marked 'F'.

"This is not a hole marked 'F'. This is just a hole."

Na-yeon, eager to assist, knelt beside him, shining her brightest ladybug-shaped flashlight directly into his eyes. "Can you see better now?"

"Ah! My retinas." Gyeong-seok blinked, a constellation of purple spots dancing in his vision. "That's very helpful, my little firefly, but maybe you can shine it on the hole instead of Appa's face?"

"Which hole?"

"The one that is supposed to be 'F' but is stubbornly refusing to identify itself."

Hyun-ju watched from the doorway, a soft smile on her face. She had already unpacked the small, fitted sheets, their cotton fabric smelling of clean laundry and new beginnings. She ran her hand over the folded stacks, her fingers tracing the faint weave of the cloth.

An hour later, one crib stood complete, a sturdy, reassuring presence in the middle of the room. Gyeong-seok was sweating, a smudge of grease on his cheek, but his expression was one of triumphant satisfaction.

"One down. Now for its identical, yet equally complicated, twin." He picked up the allen key again, flexing his fingers. "I have learned its secrets. This one will take half the time."

"It's wobbling," Na-yeon observed, giving one of the railings a firm shake.

Gyeong-seok's face fell. He dropped to his knees, peering under the frame. "It's not wobbling. It's… settling. Into its new environment."

"It's definitely wobbling."

Hyun-ju stepped forward, handing him a screwdriver from the small toolbox. "Try tightening bolt 'G'. The one next to the hole that is not 'F'."

He took it, a look of profound gratitude on his face. "This is why we're a team."

When both cribs finally stood, solid and identical, they moved them into the small room that had waited, empty, for so long. They filled the space, transforming it instantly. It was no longer a spare room. It was a nursery. While Gyeong-seok dealt with the mountain of cardboard, Hyun-ju took the sheets.

She worked with a slow, reverent grace. She unfolded the first sheet, its pale gray fabric patterned with tiny, white stars. She smoothed it over the thin mattress, her hands pulling the elastic corners taut, erasing every wrinkle until the surface was a perfect, unbroken plane. She did the same for the second crib. The two small beds stood ready, side by side.

Na-yeon came in, holding the two rabbits. She stood for a moment, her expression serious, as if she were performing a ceremony of great importance. She carefully placed the yellow-ribboned rabbit in the center of the first crib, then the blue-ribboned one in the second. They sat propped against the pillows, their soft bodies waiting.

Hyun-ju knelt down, putting an arm around her daughter. They looked at the two empty cribs, at the two lonely rabbits.

"Now they're ready," Na-yeon whispered, her voice full of awe.

"Yes, sweetie." Hyun-ju's voice was thick. "Now we're ready."

☾ ☽ ☾

The air in Mrs. Choi's apartment was the same, warm, still, smelling of milk and quiet care. But this time, there was a palpable undercurrent of finality. Ms. Lee sat at the small kitchen table, a sheaf of papers spread before her. The click of her pen as she pointed to signature lines was the only sound.

Hyun-ju's hand was steady as she signed her name. Gyeong-seok's was, too. Each stroke of the pen felt both impossibly light and unbearably heavy. The legal transfer. The formal end of one chapter and the beginning of another.

The babies were drowsy, milk-drunk and peaceful after their last bottle from Mrs. Choi. They lay on a soft blanket on the floor, their eyes half-closed, their small bodies limp with contentment.

"Everything is in order." Ms. Lee gathered the papers, her smile warm and professional, yet tinged with a genuine emotion that softened her eyes. "They're yours."

The words hung in the quiet apartment. Officially. It was done.

Mrs. Choi knelt on the floor. She adjusted Ha-na's blanket, her movements slow and tender. She looked up at them, her gaze clear and direct, yet swimming with a deep, unshed grief.

"Tae-joon likes to be burped over the shoulder. He relaxes faster. Ha-na prefers to sit up on your lap. She likes to see what's happening." She spoke as if reciting a sacred text, a final transfer of precious, vital knowledge. "And the cloud hat… it's Tae-joon's. He pulls at it when he's tired."

"We'll remember," Hyun-ju promised, her voice a raw whisper.

Mrs. Choi nodded, a single, sharp motion. She took a deep, steadying breath, then she stood. She lifted Ha-na first. The baby was a warm, pliable weight in her arms. She held her for a moment, her face buried in the baby's soft hair, a silent, private goodbye. Then she turned to Hyun-ju.

She placed Ha-na into Hyun-ju's waiting arms. The transfer was seamless, a sacred, practiced motion. Hyun-ju pulled her daughter close, the familiar, yet still miraculous, weight of her settling against her chest. She smelled of Mrs. Choi's soap and her own milky sweetness.

Gyeong-seok held his arms out as Mrs. Choi lifted Tae-joon. The little boy was already half-asleep, his head lolling against her shoulder. She passed him to Gyeong-seok, who cradled him against his chest, one large hand splayed protectively across his tiny back.

They stood there for a moment, a tableau of a family just born.

Mrs. Choi reached out. She didn't touch the babies. Instead, she placed one hand on Hyun-ju's back, and the other on Gyeong-seok's. Her touch was light, but it felt as if it carried the weight of a thousand blessings.

"Be happy," she said, her voice thick with unshed tears. "All of you. Just… be happy."

Hyun-ju couldn't speak. She could only nod, her vision blurring. She pressed her lips to Ha-na's forehead, a silent vow. We will be.

The walk out of the apartment building was a journey into a new world. The sunlight in the street seemed brighter, the air sharper. Each step felt deliberate, monumental. Back at their own house, Geum-ja and Na-yeon were waiting, a two-person welcoming committee standing on the front porch.

☾ ☽ ☾

Na-yeon saw them first. A piercing shriek of pure joy. She launched herself down the steps, her arms wide.

"They're here! They're really here!"

☾ ☽ ☾

The first few days were a blur, a strange and beautiful collage of moments. Bottles steaming in a sterilizer on the kitchen counter at midnight. The frantic search for a pacifier, only to find it clinging to a wet sock in the washing machine. The seemingly endless mountain of laundry, composed of impossibly small clothes.

One night, at two-ten in the morning, the duet began. Ha-na started first, a thin, piercing wail from her crib. A moment later, Tae-joon joined in, his cry a deeper, more indignant complaint. Hyun-ju staggered out of bed, her eyes gritty with exhaustion. Gyeong-seok was already in the nursery doorway, his hair standing on end.

He squinted at her in the dim glow of the hallway light. "You take soprano, I'll take alto."

She managed a weak laugh. "Deal."

She lifted a red-faced, furious Ha-na, while Gyeong-seok scooped up an equally distraught Tae-joon. They met in the middle of the room, swaying in a tired, uncoordinated dance.

"I think someone needs a new diaper." Gyeong-seok's voice was muffled against Tae-joon's back.

"I think someone else is just hungry."

In the pale light, Hyun-ju rocked her daughter, her own body a metronome of comfort. As Ha-na's cries softened, she let out a tiny, breathy sound, a little sigh of surrender just before her eyes drifted shut. Hyun-ju's heart clenched. Mrs. Choi's words echoed in her mind. She trusts you already.

☾ ☽ ☾

Later that week, Gyeong-seok sat in the rocking chair, giving Tae-joon his afternoon bottle. The baby drank with a fierce, frowning concentration, his brow furrowed. The little white cloud-hat they had brought him home in was perched on his head, and as he grew drowsy, it slipped sideways, covering one eye. He fell asleep mid-suckle, milk dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Gyeong-seok didn't move, just watched him, a look of profound, goofy love on his face.

Na-yeon took her new role with a gravity that was both hilarious and deeply touching. She would tiptoe into the nursery a dozen times a day, peering into the cribs with a look of intense focus.

"I'm just checking on them," she would whisper, as if sharing a state secret. "They need me. I promised I'd check on them even while I'm asleep. My brain will do it."

Then the village arrived.

Geum-ja was first, appearing at the door not with a gift basket, but with a massive pot of seaweed soup, a tape measure, and two tiny, hand-knitted hats, one blue, one yellow. She marched in, her eyes scanning the room for flaws, for dust, for anything out of place.

"The soup is for your strength." She set the pot on the stove with a decisive thud. "The hats are because a draft can come from anywhere. And the tape measure is to make sure the cribs are a safe distance from the window."

"Eomeonim, they're fine," Gyeong-seok started.

"We'll see about that." She was already unfurling the metal tape, her expression grimly determined.

Next came Yong-sik, his arms laden with grocery bags. He barged in without knocking, a triumphant grin on his face.

"The prophet has arrived with provisions! I have brought milk, coffee, and enough snacks to sustain you through the coming apocalypse of sleeplessness." He dropped the bags on the counter and pointed a finger at Gyeong-seok. "And let the record show, I called it. The twin pizza prophecy was fulfilled. You all owe me your eternal gratitude."

"We owe you for the groceries," Hyun-ju said, laughing as she peeked into a bag filled entirely with chocolate-covered biscuits. "Thank you, Yong-sik."

"Just doing my part for the next generation. Where are my godchildren? I must bestow my blessings upon them."

The doorbell rang again. It was Jun-hee, her own baby, Ji-an, strapped to her chest in a carrier. She stood on the doorstep, peering in.

"Okay, I'm not coming inside until I get a straight answer. Can I hold a reasonable portion of baby, or are you hoarding them all for yourselves?"

"The baby-hoarding has just begun," Gyeong-seok called out. "But we might be willing to negotiate."

Jun-hee stepped inside, immediately making a beeline for Gyeong-seok, who was holding Tae-joon. "Give me the boy. I have a daughter. I need to know what the other side is like. Is it quieter? Does he smell less like sour milk? No offense, my little gremlin." She patted her own sleeping baby's back.

The house filled with noise, with laughter, with the happy, chaotic energy of people who loved them. Yong-sik tried to convince Gyeong-seok that twins needed a dog, a golden retriever specifically. Geum-ja followed him around, wiping up invisible spills. Jun-hee sat cross-legged on the floor, expertly burping Tae-joon while giving Hyun-ju an unfiltered, minute-by-minute account of her own delivery story.

In the middle of it all, Na-yeon gathered an audience. She sat on the rug, Bunny propped beside her. Ha-na and Ji-an lay on a soft play-mat at her feet, her dark eyes wide and unfocused.

"And so," Na-yeon declared, holding up a picture book, "the butterfly-fearing dragon decided to make friends with a caterpillar instead. Bunny, you will now demonstrate the proper way to be a caterpillar." She laid the stuffed rabbit on its stomach and attempted to make it wriggle.

The house was loud and full and messy, and it was perfect.

☾ ☽ ☾

Later, much later, the quiet descended again. The visitors had gone, leaving behind the lingering warmth of their presence, a half-eaten cake on the counter, and a freezer full of soup. The house was dim, lit only by a single floor lamp that cast a soft, amber glow over the living room.

Both twins were asleep, finally, their tiny bodies curled in mirror images of each other. Hyun-ju held Ha-na, her head nestled in the crook of her arm. Gyeong-seok held Tae-joon, who was sprawled across his chest like a tiny, contented starfish. Na-yeon was wedged between them on the couch, her head resting on Hyun-ju's lap, her breathing deep and even. Bunny stood guard on the cushion beside her.

The television was off. No one spoke. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic breathing of their children. Gyeong-seok reached out, his hand finding Hyun-ju's in the small space between them. His fingers laced through hers, a silent, grounding pressure.

Hyun-ju looked at the scene. Gyeong-seok's tired, happy face illuminated in the soft light. Na-yeon, her fierce little protector, finally at rest. And the two precious, miraculous weights in their arms. She watched as Tae-joon's sleeping hand drifted out, his fingers brushing against his sister's cheek. Ha-na sighed in her sleep, the tiny, breathy sound that was already the most beautiful music Hyun-ju had ever heard.

Her heart was so full it was a physical ache in her chest, a profound, expansive joy that left no room for fear, no space for doubt. All the waiting, all the hoping, all the quiet, desperate prayers had led to this. To this couch. To this moment.

She leaned her head back against the cushions, her gaze taking in her whole, improbable, beautiful family. Gyeong-seok squeezed her hand. She squeezed back.

This, she thought. This is it.

Home.