Chapter 49

The apartment didn't just smell like fresh paint anymore.

It smelled like them.

Like vanilla and cedarwood candles flickering low on polished wood. Like the quiet warmth of linen and sage and lavender laundry sheets folded into thick throws. Like cinnamon tea and soft music humming somewhere from Alex's side of the hall. Beth stood just inside the doorway, her duffel bag at her feet, Cassie's suitcase tipped open behind her like a half-spilled memory. It was their first night in the new apartment, and somehow, despite everything they'd left behind—this place already felt like home.

Beth swallowed hard, blinking fast.

She didn't know what she'd expected when Alex said she would "take care of it." Maybe a sofa. A bedframe if she was feeling generous. Something minimal, something temporary. But this—this was a curated dream. Soft and golden and layered like someone had taken the word comfort and built a space around it.

The living room looked like it had been stitched from candlelight. Plush, oversized couches hugged the corners in warm grey, blanketed in thick knits and neutral-toned pillows that invited sinking in and staying a while. A worn Persian rug sprawled beneath a low coffee table, stacked with Beth's favorite books and a small wooden bowl filled with fresh tangerines and tea lights. The walls held framed black-and-white prints and shelves that already cradled a few of Cassie's bedtime stories, their spines worn and familiar. In the window nook, a scattering of potted plants perched beside lanterns—battery-powered, maybe, but glowing like fireflies trapped in jars. The curtains had been drawn back, revealing the slow blue descent of Seoul's winter dusk through tall windows that looked out onto pine trees and the distant glint of headlights.

Cassie had already disappeared deeper into the apartment. Beth could hear her—gasping and narrating and bouncing on floorboards.

She turned toward the kitchen. It was smaller than Alex's, but just as intentional. Warm wood counters met sleek white cabinetry and a brick backsplash that looked impossibly charming under the gentle gleam of pendant lights. Fairy lights hung in loose arcs across the ceiling, twinkling like stars caught on their way down. A candle flickered beside the stove, and on the kitchen table—sturdy wood with mismatched chairs—sat a new mug painted with Cassie's name in glitter script.

Beth stood there for a long moment, breathing it in.

She didn't realize how tightly she'd been holding herself until now.

Alex appeared in the doorway, hair twisted up and cheeks faintly pink from the cold, holding two wine glasses. She offered one without a word. Beth took it.

"I don't even know how to thank you," Beth said quietly.

Alex shrugged like it was nothing, though her eyes said otherwise. "You don't. You just show up at Golden Stag on Monday and start being my left hand. Elliot's already my right."

Beth huffed a soft laugh into her glass. "That's not payment."

"Sure it is," Alex replied. "You're going to keep me sane. And we're going to build something real. That's more than enough."

Beth set the wine down gently. "You didn't have to do all this."

"I know." A pause. "But I wanted to. Because you deserve it."

Before she could respond, a delighted shriek echoed from the back of the apartment.

"MAMA! MY ROOM EXPLODED!"

Beth exchanged a look with Alex and followed the sound.

Cassie's room was—

Beth's breath caught.

Pink.

Explosively, unapologetically pink. Blush and rose and cotton candy and cream. It looked like a princess had wished on a star and this was the result. A full-sized bed nestled beneath a canopy of gauzy curtains strung with fairy lights, casting a warm, golden glow across the whole room. The headboard was tufted, the bedding layered in soft textures—faux fur, velvet, knit throws. On one wall, a white vanity sparkled with a mirror ringed in lights and tiny perfume bottles lined up in perfect little rows. Baskets overflowed with plush pillows and stuffed animals. A round rug of knotted yarn sprawled across the floor like a cloud fallen from the ceiling. Shelves held storybooks, trinkets, and a framed photo of Beth and Cassie at the beach, the one Alex had secretly taken and somehow kept safe.

Cassie spun in a slow circle, arms flung out, eyes wide. "This is my castle room! Look! I have a sparkly cave for my makeup and a secret chair that looks like a muffin!"

Beth let out a laugh that caught in her throat and curled into something else. Something thick and teary and full.

She crouched and pulled Cassie into her arms, holding her close. "You love it?"

Cassie nodded so hard her hair bounced. "It's perfect."

"Male sure you thank Aunty Alex. She paid for all of this." Beth reminded her.

Cassie nodded solemnly and darted out of the room before Beth could even finish the sentence, her socked feet skimming the floor. From the hallway, her voice rang out—high and earnest—"THANK YOU AUNTY ALEX! YOU'RE THE BEST DECORATOR IN THE WHOLE WORLD!"

Alex's laughter echoed back, warm and a little choked.

Beth stayed crouched for a moment longer, fingers brushing the hem of the gauzy curtain, grounding herself in the texture. Then she stood, stretching her back, and wandered back toward the front of the apartment.

Elliot was slipping his coat on, one arm at a time, a faint crease between his brows. His duffel sat by the door beside a rolling suitcase covered in travel stickers and battle scars from TSA.

"You're heading out?" Beth asked, already knowing the answer.

He nodded, flashing her a quick smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Movers are dropping everything at my place tonight. I need to make sure they don't accidentally stack the turntables on top of the antique record shelf again."

"You had everything shipped from Seattle?"

"Everything," he said, a touch softer now. "Even the ugly lamp Felix hated."

Beth tilted her head. "The lava lamp?"

"Yup."

There was a beat of quiet. The kind of silence where neither one of them had to say it aloud. He missed him. Of course he did. The distance, the time difference, the ache of starting over—it all had a way of settling into your spine when no one was looking.

"You okay?" she asked gently.

Elliot exhaled, eyes flicking up to hers. "Yeah. Just tired."

She didn't push, and he didn't elaborate.

Instead, he straightened, gave her a two-fingered salute, and ruffled her hair on his way out the door. "You two settle in. And no more crying or I'll come back with tequila and bad decisions."

"We'll try to behave."

Beth leaned her shoulder against the doorframe after it clicked shut behind him. For a long breath, she just stood there. Letting the quiet of the apartment wash over her. Cassie was humming in her room. Somewhere in the distance, a train passed. The heater kicked on with a soft rattle and a warm gust through the vents. She let herself breathe into it. Let the stillness feel real.

Alex was gathering her keys from the counter, scarf looped twice around her neck. "I'll leave you two to nest. There's pasta in the fridge and a bottle of wine with your name on it."

"You don't have to go," Beth offered, though it came out soft, not desperate. "Not yet."

"I do." Alex smiled, tapping her temple. "If I stay, you'll start apologizing for existing again, and I've hit my limit for the day."

Beth rolled her eyes, but she grinned. "Thank you. For everything."

"You're welcome," Alex said, serious now. "You're home, Beth. Let yourself feel that."

And then she was gone.

Beth stood in the hush that followed, the dim light of the living room flickering like it was holding its breath. She crossed the room, picked up her phone from the windowsill, and sat on the couch with her knees curled under her. The soft weight of it all pressed into her—warm blankets, the scent of cloves, the memory of laughter in the hallway.

Her screen lit up, the sudden glow casting soft reflections across the wineglass perched on the windowsill. The name on the incoming call made her chest lurch in a way she wasn't ready to admit even to herself.

Changbin 💪🖤 is FaceTiming...

Beth didn't hesitate. Her thumb slid across the screen, and a breath she hadn't known she was holding caught in her throat as the call connected.

His face filled the frame in a tangle of sideways angles and dim hotel lighting—hood pulled low, damp hair sticking up like he'd just finished a workout and hadn't bothered to tame the aftermath. The dark fabric clung to his shoulders, collar askew, eyes bright under the shadow of his hood.

"Hey," he said, smiling like the world hadn't been falling apart lately. "You alive in there?"

"Barely," she replied, voice warmer than she expected. She shifted the camera to show the mess behind her—the fairy lights draped across walls still half-buried in moving boxes, a lopsided fort of throw blankets on the couch, and Cassie's glitter-coated backpack lying sideways like a casualty of war.

He gave a low, appreciative whistle. "Damn. Looks like Alex went full Pinterest witch."

Beth laughed under her breath, letting the sound settle somewhere deep in her chest. "She really did. Cassie thinks she's a fairy godmother now. Keeps asking when her wings are gonna show up."

Changbin chuckled, and the sound sent a ripple through her—something fond and solid and achingly missed. It was the kind of laugh that curled at the edges of her heart, familiar in a way that made her eyes sting unexpectedly. He sounded like home. Or at least like something that could be, if they ever let themselves name it out loud.

"How are you holding up?" he asked, softer now, the grin easing into something gentler.

Beth hesitated, her fingers brushing along the seam of her leggings as she glanced around the apartment again. Then, slowly, she turned the camera, letting him see what she saw. The buttery glow of low lamps. The slightly off-kilter bookshelf already cradling their favorite bedtime stories. The warmth of worn rugs and candlelight. The gentle mess of settling in, stitched through with lavender and tea and the breath of something new.

"It's... good," she murmured, her voice catching faintly on the word. "Better than I thought it would be. I'm ready to cook in my kitchen. That's when I'll know it's real."

She looked back at the screen and smiled. "Also, your English is getting really good."

His grin was smug and proud and just a little bit boyish. "I've been practicing. I do... Duolingo. And rap lyrics."

Beth snorted, eyes bright. "That explains why you told me yesterday that you were gonna 'spit fire in the kitchen.'"

"Was trying to say I'd cook dinner," he said with a shrug, lips twitching. "But now maybe I spit fire too. You want spicy ramen? I spit it."

"God, you're such a menace," she muttered, but she was grinning as she said it, her voice all softness and surrender.

The humor faded gently from his face, replaced with something quieter. He leaned a little closer, the grain of his hotel room barely visible behind him. "You look tired."

Beth's hand went to her face instinctively, as if she could hide it. "I am," she said, lowering her palm again. "But it's a good tired. The kind that feels earned. I think... this might be the first time in a long while where I don't feel like I'm running just to stay on my feet."

He didn't say anything at first. Just looked at her, gaze steady and unflinching, his expression a soft mirror of her own exhaustion. When he did nod, it was slow and knowing. The kind of agreement born not from sympathy, but from lived experience. Like he understood exactly what she meant. Like he'd run the same roads.

"Cassie okay?"

Beth adjusted the phone, letting the camera shift toward the far end of the hallway. The door to her daughter's room had been left ajar, a soft pink light spilling out in dappled waves that danced along the hardwood floor like a living thing. The glow pulsed gently, wrapped in gauzy curtains and twinkle lights, warm as candlelight and delicate as spun sugar. It looked like the heartbeat of a fairy tale tucked safely into four walls.

"She's in love," Beth murmured, her voice caught between a laugh and something more fragile. "Already told Alex she's never leaving. I think she's nesting like a hamster under all those throw pillows. Built herself a little cave. She's in there right now teaching her stuffed turtle Korean."

She tilted the camera back, catching the way Changbin threw his head back with a proper laugh—deep and unrestrained, the kind of sound that made her chest ache with something sweet. She closed her eyes for a beat and let it wash over her, filling the room like warmth through a vent or sunlight through a closed window. It was a laugh she'd missed more than she wanted to admit. A laugh that felt like belonging.

"Good," he said after a moment, still breathy from it. "She needs soft things. So do you."

Beth looked at him again, her gaze catching on the shadows drawn across his face by the hoodie's edge. His jaw flexed faintly like it always did when he was thinking too hard. A sheen of sweat still clung to the curve of his cheekbone, evidence of a long gym session or maybe just the endless motion of life on the road. The intimacy of it made her throat tighten. He was on the other side of the world, thousands of miles away, and still he looked at her like she mattered. Like she was real in his hands even through the glass.

God, she missed him.

She hadn't said the words out loud yet—not even to herself, not really—but the ache of it lived beneath her ribs every day. It was there now, crawling up her throat and begging to be known.

"So," she said, forcing her voice back into something steadier, something teasing, "how much longer are you guys on tour? Cassie's been asking about Uncle Binnie nonstop."

Changbin gave a long sigh, glancing off to the side like he was mentally flipping through pages in a planner. "Two more weeks in the States," he said slowly. "Then we start working our way back through Asia. Last show's in Tokyo. Mid-March."

Beth blinked, heart sinking. "That's still over a month."

"I know." His voice softened on the admission, as if the math hurt more now that it had been spoken out loud. The weight of it lingered there between them, thick with the kind of tired that sleep couldn't fix.

There was something in his tone that cracked slightly at the edges—just a breath off from his usual surety. Like the distance had begun to chip at him, the way it had been chipping at her. Hotel rooms and backstage tunnels and endless travel days that blurred into each other until time stopped making sense. She saw it in the way his eyes lingered on her face. In the tension that lived in his shoulders. In the way he looked at her like she was an anchor he couldn't quite reach.

Beth tucked herself deeper into the couch, curling her legs beneath her and setting the phone against her knees. She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, the glow of the living room wrapping around her like something borrowed from a dream.

"Well," she said, her voice warm despite the ache in her chest, "Cassie's already made plans to make you pancakes. And soup. And also interrogate whether your muscles are 'still that big.' Direct quote."

Changbin snorted, one eyebrow arching in mock offense. "She's obsessed."

"She's five," Beth replied with a soft laugh. "But yeah. She is."

He paused then, long enough that the silence began to feel like something held between them—tentative, charged.

"What about you?" he asked quietly, the words low and almost too soft to catch.

Beth's brows furrowed. "What about me?"

"Are you... obsessed too?" His voice stayed light, like it was supposed to be a joke, but the tension in his eyes told a different story. There was something delicate in the way he asked it. Something unguarded. Something that tugged at her from the inside out.

Her gaze dropped to the hem of her sweater, fingers twisting a thread loose like it might distract her from the sudden weight of her own heartbeat. She didn't answer right away. She just breathed, slow and deep, the wine humming low in her limbs and pulling down the last of her walls.

"I think about you more than is probably legal in at least six countries," she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. She lifted her eyes just enough to meet his gaze through the camera. "So. Yeah. Maybe."

The smile that bloomed across his face was unguarded in a way that took her breath. Wide and disbelieving and so openly delighted it made her stomach flip. He looked like he didn't know what to do with the emotion, like it had snuck up on him and rooted itself right beneath his ribs.

"Shit," he breathed. "I miss you."

Beth didn't speak. She didn't have to. The words sat heavy in her chest, known and mirrored and returned in the soft way she looked at him—like he was the place she'd been reaching toward in the dark.

"I hate this part," he said after a moment, voice breaking the quiet like a crack in a frozen lake. "Being far. Not knowing if you're okay in the middle of the night. Wanting to help and not being able to do more than... FaceTime and emoji hearts."

Beth nodded slowly, fingers tracing the stitching of the blanket tucked around her. "Yeah. Me too."

She rubbed her palm over her face, trying to collect herself. The wine had loosened her edges, and everything felt just a little more vulnerable than it had five minutes ago. But she didn't pull away. She didn't deflect.

"But I also know this won't last forever," she said quietly. "You're doing something incredible. Something huge. And we're okay. Cassie's thriving. I'm breathing again. That has to be enough for now. And I know—" she swallowed, her voice wobbling slightly "—I know you'll come home."

Changbin didn't speak right away. His silence wasn't heavy, but weighted—full of something unspoken that hovered between them like mist on the edge of dawn. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped an octave, low and reverent, barely more than breath threading through the quiet.

"You say that like it's mine."

The words landed somewhere just below Beth's ribs, soft as cotton and sharp as glass. Her stomach clenched reflexively, and her gaze jerked back to his, wide-eyed. Heat flushed up the side of her neck before she could stop it. Her mouth parted to reply, but the words caught and tangled.

"Ah...sorry," she stammered, breath catching. "I didn't mean—"

Her fingers curled into the hem of her sweater, twisting it with restless precision. She suddenly couldn't look at him directly. It had slipped out so fast, too true to backpedal from, too soon to name. It hadn't been calculated or coy. Just instinct. Honest in a way that startled her. Honest in a way that made her feel unsteady and exposed.

But Changbin never got the chance to say a word in return.

Because in the next instant, the door behind him exploded open like a breached dam and chaos came barrelling through.

"BINNIEEEEEEEEE!"

A blur of flailing limbs and fabric launched into frame, colliding with Changbin in a full-body tackle that sent the camera reeling. The phone jerked sideways, capturing only a spinning blur of ceiling, bedsheets, and muffled shouting that rose in volume like a fire alarm gone rogue.

"What the—GET OFF—"

"WE SAW YOU SMILING, BRO!" Han's voice was unmistakable—high-pitched, gleeful, and completely unhinged. "WHO YOU TALKIN' TO? OH MY GOD, IS THAT—"

"NO—HAN—GIVE ME THE—"

Beth burst into laughter so hard her eyes watered, the phone trembling in her hands as she tried to stabilize it. The screen was a blur of bodies and bickering, someone's knee coming into view, followed by a tuft of brown hair and the edge of a pillow.

"GIVE IT BACK—HYUNG, PUT ME DOWN—"

"IS IT HER?! IS IT BETH-NOONA?!" someone else called from offscreen, voice cracking with excitement.

"I'M ON THE PHONE, YOU ANIMALS—"

"Say hi to your girlfriend for us!"

"Hyung," came a voice from somewhere deeper in the room, thick with sleep and exasperation. "It's midnight. Why is there a wrestling match happening?"

Beth wheezed, barely holding it together. "That's Hyunjin," she said between giggles, wiping tears from under her eyes. "Tell him he sounds like a grumpy house cat."

More scuffling followed. A crash. Possibly a shoe hitting a wall. Someone cursed in Korean. Someone else—probably Lee Know—told them all to shut up or die. Then, at last, the camera righted with a clumsy lurch.

Changbin came back into focus, hair sticking up at odd angles, hoodie collar stretched down one shoulder, and what looked suspiciously like glitter smudged across his jawline. His expression was one of pure betrayal, wide-eyed and glaring at someone just off-screen like he'd been personally wronged by fate.

"Hi Beth," Jisung said, appearing over his shoulder like a feral goblin, arms looped casually around Changbin's neck as if he hadn't just tried to stage a coup. His grin was unrepentant. "We're just doing a wellness check. Making sure Binnie here isn't getting too sappy."

Changbin elbowed him off with a grunt, shoving him half out of frame. "I'm allowed to be sappy. Go bother Chan."

"We did. He's watching baby otter videos with Hyunjin and threatening to cancel the group chat if anyone interrupts."

Beth laughed again, warmth blooming under her skin as she curled deeper into the couch. "That sounds on-brand. I assume there's hot chocolate involved?"

"There's always hot chocolate," Jisung said sagely, peeking at her through the edge of the screen. "Dang, you look cozy. Is that your new place? Wait—are those fairy lights? And throw blankets? And—yo, are those tangerines on the table?"

Changbin narrowed his eyes. "Why is food always the first thing you notice?"

"Because I have excellent priorities," Jisung replied, completely unbothered. "And because I'm cultured. Unlike some people."

Beth snorted. "You're also completely feral."

"I contain multitudes."

Changbin shoved Jisung's face out of the frame with a practiced shove that barely required effort, his hand steady despite the chaos still echoing around him. It was clearly not the first time he'd had to wrestle control back from an ambush. "Say goodnight and go away," he grunted, glaring at the space where Jisung had just been. "Some of us are trying to have feelings here."

Jisung's voice could still be heard somewhere off-camera, distant but unrelenting. "I LOVE FEELINGS—OW—WHY ARE YOUR ARMS LIKE STEEL CABLES—"

The screen bobbled slightly before resettling, and for a brief, precious moment, the room actually stilled.

Well. Almost.

The door to the hotel room had been left wide open in the aftermath, and from somewhere farther down the hall, Felix's unmistakable cackle rang out like a firecracker—sharp and uncontrollable, a sound that always made Beth smile before she even realized she was doing it. A second later, Chan's voice drifted into range, firm but clearly distracted, shouting something about "just five more minutes with the otters, for the love of God," followed by the dull, resigned thunk of another hotel room door slamming shut in protest. Probably Seungmin. Definitely Seungmin.

Beth wiped under her eyes, still catching the tail end of her laughter. On the screen, Changbin was slowly peeling himself upright, his hair sticking up in multiple directions, hoodie stretched and collar slightly askew. His face was flushed—some from exertion, but most, she suspected, from the emotional whiplash of being tackled mid-confession. He looked rumpled and endearing and just the tiniest bit dazed.

"They're feral," he muttered, casting a wary glance over his shoulder like he half-expected another ambush at any moment.

Beth snorted, pressing a hand to her mouth to keep from laughing again. Her cheeks actually hurt from smiling, and her ribs ached in that way that only came from the kind of laughter that lived deep and true. "Don't apologize," she said, shaking her head slowly. "That was the best thing I've seen all week."

Changbin's expression softened immediately. The tension in his shoulders eased, his gaze sliding back to her with something quieter behind it. Something steady. "I meant what I said," he murmured, voice low and sure. "I miss you."

The ache returned—gentle but undeniable. It curled through Beth's chest like a warm ache after a long walk, familiar and grounding. She nodded, not trusting her voice just yet. "Me too," she said finally, the words carrying more weight than their size could hold.

The moment hung between them like a curtain caught in a breeze—delicate and just slightly out of reach. A pause that felt charged, filled with the pull of something neither of them was quite ready to name aloud yet. Not tonight. Not across a screen. But it was there, nonetheless.

Changbin leaned back again, pulling the blanket on his bed up to his waist, the fatigue catching up to him now that the noise had died down. "Go get some rest," he said, softer this time, almost coaxing. "You look like you're two blinks away from passing out in a pillow fort."

Beth let her body relax further into the couch, her head tilting against the back cushions. "I probably am," she admitted, yawning into the sleeve of her oversized sweater. "Cassie buried me under six throw blankets earlier. I think I might be part of the furniture now."

"Send me pictures," he said, the corners of his mouth tipping up again. "Of her room. And your kitchen. And..." His voice dipped an octave. "Of you."

Beth rolled her eyes, but there was no heat to it. Only fondness. Familiarity. That aching warmth that had begun to feel more like home than any place she'd ever lived. "You're demanding."

"Affectionate," he corrected with a wink.

She smiled as she pulled the throw blanket higher around her shoulders, her eyelids already beginning to drift. "Goodnight, Binnie."

"Goodnight, Beth."

The call ended with a soft click, and the screen went dark—leaving behind only the gentle glow of fairy lights and the quiet, steady hum of home.