Chapter 54

The apartment was quiet. Not the kind of brittle, nerve-scraping quiet that used to stretch Beth too thin, the kind that made her double-check the locks and leave hallway lights on overnight just in case. This quiet was something else entirely. It was the soft exhale at the end of a long day, the kind of quiet that slipped between the bones and settled there like warmth in winter. Peaceful. Lived-in.

Cassie had finally knocked out cold after a full day of "ocean school" with Hana, complete with watercolor tide pools and a triumphant reenactment of a crab migration in the hallway. Midnight had retired to his chosen kingdom—the laundry basket in the corner of the room—where he now snored softly with one paw draped over his nose, the picture of feline satisfaction.

Only the fairy lights along the window offered illumination now, casting gentle golden shapes against the wall, their glow made more ethereal by the way they reflected off the paused TV screen. The image frozen there was a drifting, translucent jellyfish mid-pulse, caught halfway through the documentary Cassie had insisted was essential viewing for her marine curriculum. The title card still lingered in the corner: Jellyfish: Ghosts of the Deep.

Beth was curled up at one end of the couch, legs tucked under a chunky knit blanket, her body half-folded into the curve of the cushions. A cooling mug of peppermint tea rested in her hands, cradled more for comfort than warmth now. She hadn't changed out of the oversized hoodie she'd pulled on that morning—the same one she'd stolen from Changbin before he left for Texas. It still held the faintest trace of his scent, something woodsy and warm beneath the lingering hints of his laundry detergent. She hadn't admitted out loud how often she reached for it.

Her phone buzzed against the armrest—once, then again, insistent but not urgent. She didn't need to check the screen to know who it was. Her fingers were already moving before her thoughts caught up. Thumb sliding across the glass. Muscle memory. Heart memory. Right on cue, the FaceTime request lit up her screen.

She accepted it with a soft, unthinking "Hey," the sound barely louder than the hum of the heater in the corner.

The screen filled with Changbin's face—upside down for a second as he adjusted the angle, the familiar hotel headboard behind him. His hair was a tousled mess, ends still damp from a recent shower, and he wore that faded black tank top—the one she'd once told him made him look like a Marvel character during his brooding redemption arc. The edges of a tattoo peeked out from beneath the strap, familiar now, almost comforting.

"Hey, sunshine," he said, voice low and warm, the words rolling out easy and affectionate, like they always belonged between them.

Beth rolled her eyes automatically, but there was no heat in it. The slight smile tugging at the corner of her mouth gave her away. "It's midnight. There is no sun."

"There's you," he replied, shrugging like that settled the matter entirely.

She groaned and dropped her face into the blanket, half hiding, half muffling the laugh that threatened to escape. "Gross," she muttered.

"Admit it," Changbin said, his grin widening until the dimples in his cheeks deepened, mischievous and unrepentant. He shifted the angle of his camera so it framed his face more clearly—his dark eyes bright despite the late hour, the edge of his hotel pillow visible behind him like a soft blur. "You missed me."

Beth peeked out from beneath her blanket with the wary precision of a suspicious woodland creature emerging from its burrow. Her brow arched in mock challenge as she tightened her grip on her tea mug. "I miss sleep," she said flatly, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

"You liar," he shot back, grinning like he already had proof in his back pocket. "You've been sending me Snapchats of your tea with tragic little captions like, 'wish this tasted like your voice.'"

Her jaw dropped. "That was one time," she said, eyes wide with mock outrage. "And it was a joke."

"Mmhmm," he hummed knowingly, leaning back until his tank top slipped just slightly off his shoulder. The lighting in his hotel room cast a golden stripe across the line of his collarbone, catching on the edge of the tattoo that peeked from beneath the fabric. For a fleeting second, Beth could almost pretend he was stretched out at the other end of her couch instead of hundreds of miles away. "You're just mad I screenshotted it."

Beth narrowed her eyes, raising her mug like a gavel. "You did not."

He didn't even respond. Just reached off-screen for something, then tilted his phone to reveal his lock screen—her selfie, late at night, half-asleep with a tea mug held under her chin and the offending caption still intact at the bottom of the screen. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bleary, the photo intimate in a way that made her want to both laugh and hide under the furniture.

"Oh my god," she groaned, flopping sideways onto the couch like a felled tree and dragging the blanket up over her head. "I'm never texting you again."

"You say that every night," Changbin said, his voice practically glowing through the speaker.

"And yet here we are," Beth muttered from beneath the layers of cotton and shame.

There was a pause then. A real one. Not awkward—just stretched, comfortable, filled with the quiet hum of two people who had run out of clever things to say and were okay with it. Beth lowered the blanket a few inches, just enough to find his gaze again through the screen. His eyes were soft in the dim light, and there was something in them tonight—a tenderness she hadn't expected. A tiredness too, but not the draining kind. It was more like the quiet fatigue that came after something worthwhile.

"You're almost home," she said gently, her voice barely above a whisper. "Two more shows."

He nodded, the movement subtle but certain. "Then Seoul. Then you."

The words landed heavier than she'd anticipated. He hadn't said, then I go home. Hadn't said, then I crash in my bed. He'd said you, like that was the destination he'd been circling toward all along. It settled into her chest like a stone in a pond—small but rippling outward, disrupting things she hadn't meant to name.

His tone softened as he leaned forward, the camera swaying slightly with the movement. "You okay?"

Beth hesitated for a moment, then gave a slow nod. "Yeah," she said, her voice quiet. "Just tired. The good kind."

Changbin smiled again, and this time it was gentler. Slower. It crept into his features like a sunrise, warm and patient. "Hana said Cassie tried to give Gomi a tattoo today."

Beth let out a breath of laughter that warmed the rim of her tea mug. "She wanted it to be a lightning bolt," she said, shaking her head fondly. "Said it would make him faster in the bathtub."

"God, I love her brain," he murmured, grinning like the thought alone was enough to anchor him for the night.

Beth felt the weight of it then—that ache she hadn't named, the one that returned every night when the call ended. It wasn't loneliness exactly. It was something quieter. Something tender. The ache of having something precious and not quite being able to hold it the way you wanted to. The ache of watching someone you care about exist through a screen when your whole body wanted to reach across the distance and say, stay.

"I don't know what this is," Beth said suddenly, her voice low but steady. She stared down at the tea in her hands, now lukewarm, the steam long faded. "I mean... with us. I don't want to assume."

Changbin didn't flinch. He didn't scramble for words or fill the space with hurried reassurance. He simply nodded, slow and sure, his gaze holding hers with that same quiet steadiness she'd come to rely on. "Okay. Let's talk about it."

Beth blinked, surprised by his calm. "Now?"

"No," he said, shaking his head gently. "When I get back. When I'm sitting on that couch right there, and you're in my hoodie for real, and Cassie's asleep in the next room, and there's no screen between us."

The breath caught in her throat—not with fear, but with something warmer, something heavier. She nodded, the motion small. "Okay."

"But just so you know," he added, his tone even but deliberate, "you're not imagining this. I don't call people every night just to hear them breathe."

Her chest tightened in that tender, aching way it sometimes did around him. She looked down again, at the mug she hadn't touched in minutes, the tea gone cold and forgotten. "I've never felt this safe with someone before," she admitted, voice hushed. "Not like this. It's terrifying."

Changbin tilted his head slightly, thoughtful. "Want to know something even scarier?"

She glanced up, one brow lifted, a flicker of curiosity breaking through her vulnerability.

"I feel safe too," he said.

The silence that followed didn't feel empty. It felt suspended, like the world had slowed down just enough to let the moment take root. The FaceTime call ticked on, the seconds counting in the corner of the screen, but neither of them moved to break it. Beth shifted slightly, curling deeper into the corner of the couch, the blanket soft around her shoulders like armor she didn't need tonight.

"I can't promise anything," she whispered. "Not right now."

"I'm not asking you to," Changbin replied. His voice held no edge, no expectation. "I just want to keep showing up."

Beth let the words settle in her chest before she answered. She nodded, the motion barely more than a breath. "Then show up Friday," she said softly. "Just... show up."

Changbin smiled, and it hit her like the light of a match in the dark. "Wouldn't miss it," he said, his voice dropping to something just above a whisper.

Neither of them hung up.

Eventually, Beth let her eyes drift closed, lulled by the steady rhythm of his breathing in her ear. The silence stretched between them like a blanket, soft and weighted, the kind that didn't need words to make it meaningful. Somewhere in the apartment, the cat turned in his sleep and Cassie mumbled from her room about "sparkle shrimp." Beth didn't move.

Three more days.

And for the first time in months, that felt like a finish line worth running toward.

When she woke the next morning, sunlight was spilling pale across her bedroom floor, warm and diffuse through the curtains. The apartment was still quiet. Peaceful. The good kind of silence.

Beth rolled onto her side and reached blindly for her phone, the reflex so ingrained now that her thumb was unlocking the screen before she'd even fully opened her eyes. It was just after 7 a.m. in Seoul. That meant it was still evening in Los Angeles—Changbin's last night on the road. She could almost picture it in her mind: the backstage chaos, the buzz of adrenaline still clinging to the air after the final set, Felix half-asleep in a makeup chair, Hyunjin throwing popcorn at Han in celebration. She could still feel the grin she wore when his last text came through hours earlier—a blurry photo from soundcheck, his in-ears looped over one shoulder, Han mid-cartwheel in the background, and a caption that simply read: One more night. Then I'm yours.

She'd stared at it longer than she meant to. Not because the words were new—he'd sent variations of that sentiment every night for the past two weeks—but because it was getting easier to believe them. To believe him. And that scared her almost more than it comforted her.

One new voice memo blinked on her screen. She pressed play with her thumb before she could second-guess it.

"Hey," came his voice, low and scratchy and just a little muffled, like he was talking through a grin. "Last hotel night. Felix is already passed out and I'm hiding in the bathtub like a gremlin to record this. I miss you. Not the idea of you. You. Hope Cassie doesn't draw another tattoo on the cat—though honestly, Midnight kind of pulled off the lightning bolt. I'll call you from the airport tomorrow, okay? Sleep good. Dream of Gomi the sea turtle's punk rock phase."

Beth smiled into her pillow, heart so full it felt like it might spill over. It was terrifying. It was wonderful.

The next morning, the apartment already smelled like miso and warm ginger. Hana moved through the kitchen with her usual quiet grace, hair twisted into a loose bun, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a soft hum trailing from her lips—something faintly familiar that Beth couldn't quite place, like a lullaby remembered from childhood but blurred around the edges. The stove hissed softly as she stirred the simmering broth, steam curling in delicate ribbons around her face.

Cassie was perched cross-legged on the counter, a position that was technically against the rules—but only sometimes, and only when Beth wasn't too tired to argue. This morning was clearly one of those times. She had a spoon balanced precariously on the bridge of her nose, arms flailing out for balance as she narrated Gomi the sea turtle's latest submarine mission in a dramatic whisper.

"Morning," Beth mumbled, yawning into the sleeve of her hoodie as she shuffled into the kitchen.

"Morning!" Cassie beamed, the spoon clattering into her lap as she sat up straighter. "Did you know narwhals sleep while swimming?"

"I do now," Beth replied, planting a kiss to the top of her daughter's curly head before reaching for a mug and pouring hot water into it from the waiting kettle. The warmth seeped into her fingers as she cradled the cup, letting it anchor her to the moment.

Across the room, Hana glanced over her shoulder and offered a quiet, knowing look. "You sleep at all?"

Beth gave a half-hearted shrug. "A little. Mostly just... waited for morning."

Hana didn't press. She didn't need to. Her silence carried understanding better than any sympathy could.

—

By midday, the apartment had been scrubbed and polished within an inch of its life. Not because it was messy—Beth had always kept things orderly, especially since the move—but because her hands needed something to do, and her mind couldn't stay still. The couch cushions had been fluffed twice. The floors swept and mopped. The bathroom towels were replaced with fresh ones that matched, and even Midnight had endured a reluctant grooming session that left his black fur sleek and shining. He tolerated it with the air of an inconvenienced king, sprawling across the clean laundry afterward like a martyr.

Cassie had spent the day in a state of high-alert energy, bouncing between bursts of hyperactivity and sudden clinginess, as if the tension humming beneath Beth's skin was something she could feel but didn't know how to name. She followed her mother room to room with a crayon in one hand and Gomi in the other, narrating sea creature facts and asking every few minutes if "it was time yet."

When Beth finally told her that Changbin would be back "after one more sleep," Cassie lit up like a festival lantern. Her face crinkled at the corners with a smile so big it nearly overtook her cheeks.

"I'm gonna show him my jellyfish dance," she declared, spinning once on the living room rug with her arms above her head and her hair flying out like a halo.

"He's not ready," Beth said, laughing as she caught Cassie mid-spin and ruffled her curls affectionately. "You're going to knock him over."

Cassie giggled. "That's the point."

—

Dinner was simple—rice bowls with marinated tofu and crisp vegetables, finished with just enough sesame oil to make the apartment smell like comfort. Afterward, Cassie and Hana spent a quiet hour on the floor going through sea creature flashcards, each one lovingly illustrated by Cassie herself. Gomi sat in a place of honor at the center of the circle, wrapped in a pink washcloth cape.

When the last card was tucked away and Cassie had curled up on the couch with a picture book, Hana turned to Beth and touched her elbow lightly, drawing her aside toward the hallway.

"Do you want me to take her tomorrow morning?" she asked, voice low and even, but not impersonal. "So you two can... talk?"

Beth blinked, momentarily caught off guard. "You mean... like, take her out somewhere?"

Hana smiled, soft and unobtrusive. "Not far. Maybe the library. She's been asking about the park again. A walk would do her good."

Beth hesitated. Her instinct was to wave it off, to say no, to shoulder the weight on her own like she always had. But her body was tired in a way that went deeper than sleep, and her chest was too full of words she hadn't spoken yet. She glanced over at Cassie, who was now humming softly, turning pages with sticky fingers and the utter calm of a child who knew she was safe.

"You don't have to do that," Beth said, but her voice had already softened.

"I know," Hana replied. "But I want to."

There was no performance in the offer. No pity. Just the same grounded presence Hana had carried since the moment she'd arrived in their lives.

Beth let the breath out slow, shoulders sagging beneath the release of tension. "Okay," she murmured. "Yeah. That would... help. A lot."