Chapter 61

The day had slipped by in slow gradients of color—sunrise bleeding into morning, morning into afternoon, and now, as dusk crept in through the apartment windows, everything was tinted gold and gray. Beth leaned back from the kitchen table at last, spine cracking faintly as she stretched with a low, aching groan. Her shoulders felt knotted from hours of stillness, the kind of tension that settled in unnoticed and only revealed itself when she moved. All around her, the table bore evidence of the storm she'd been working through: Golden Stag paperwork lay scattered like windblown leaves, contracts half-signed, to-do lists with items circled and crossed out and circled again, a stack of performance evaluations she'd promised to finish days ago but hadn't had the bandwidth to touch. Her laptop sat just off-center, screen dim, fan whispering quietly to itself as though trying not to disturb her. Next to it, a mug of coffee had cooled completely, long forgotten—its surface undisturbed, untouched since the early hours when she'd poured it.

Across the open space of the apartment, the television flickered in the living room, casting soft light and occasional bursts of sound into the otherwise still air. Some old anime was playing—bright colors, fast motion, dialogue spilling rapid-fire from the speakers in waves that Beth didn't have the focus to follow. Changbin was stretched out across the couch in comfortable disarray, one leg hanging over the armrest, the other bent beneath him. His hoodie was bunched at the elbows, revealing strong forearms that moved lazily as he adjusted the pillow under his arm. He had a throw blanket kicked over one knee and a phone resting screen-down on his chest. When she moved, he looked up, and the smile he offered her was soft and sleepy, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that made her chest tighten. She returned it—just barely—a faint upward tilt of her lips, because that was all she could muster after the long day behind her and the longer one still ahead.

Then the rattle of the key in the front door cut through the apartment, followed by the familiar creak of hinges and the bright, gentle call of Hana's voice drifting in like birdsong.

"We're back!"

Beth rose without thinking, smoothing the wrinkles from her shirt with tired fingers as she moved through the kitchen toward the entryway. Her footsteps were quiet against the wood floor, steady but slow. By the time she reached the hallway, Hana had stepped inside, smiling warmly, one hand wrapped around Cassie's. The little girl's jellyfish-patterned sunhat was askew, her cheeks flushed from the wind, and a crumpled aquarium brochure was clutched tightly in her other hand. Her sweater was dusted with glitter, the sleeves riding up her arms, and sea creature stickers clung to her leggings in a trail of octopus legs and sparkling fish. The air around her smelled faintly of sweet snacks and spring air, touched with the crispness of saltwater tanks and hand sanitizer.

But Beth saw it immediately—something was wrong.

Cassie didn't light up when she saw her. No squeal of "Mama!" No excited bounce on her toes. She didn't bolt forward with outstretched arms or throw herself into a hug like she usually did. Her face, usually so expressive, was soft and quiet, as though all the color had drained from it, leaving only a washed-out version of her joy.

"Hey, baby," Beth said gently, crouching down and opening her arms, her voice a soft thread of concern. "Did you have fun?"

Cassie gave a small nod, but it lacked energy—her head barely bobbing, eyes not quite meeting Beth's. When she stepped into the hug, it wasn't her usual warm, melting cling, the way her daughter always seemed to mold herself into Beth's body like she was trying to become part of her again. No, this time Cassie's limbs were stiff. Her back didn't curve. Her arms stayed loosely at her sides. It was like hugging a memory of Cassie instead of Cassie herself.

Beth's stomach clenched. Over the small shoulder pressed to her chest, she met Hana's eyes. The nanny's expression had shifted from cheerful to subtly concerned, and she gave the faintest shake of her head, her mouth pressing into a tight, careful line.

"She was quiet the whole train ride back," Hana murmured softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her voice was pitched low, just for Beth. "She said the jellyfish were pretty, but... I think something got to her today."

Beth nodded, bracing herself, even before the next words came.

"We saw a few dads with their kids," Hana murmured, voice low and apologetic, like she hated to be the bearer of truth. "It wasn't anything big or dramatic. But... it just seemed to hit her a little harder this time."

The words landed with a quiet, unmistakable weight. A single truth, sharpened by repetition.

Of course it had.

Beth swallowed hard, her throat tightening around the ache that had already begun to bloom low and deep behind her sternum. It was Saturday. Of course it was. The weekend always brought them out in droves—fathers with toddlers balanced on their shoulders, with kids perched on their hips, with matching ballcaps and oversized backpacks slung across their chests. Fathers pointing out jellyfish with awed reverence, buying cotton candy with one hand and holding their child's with the other, crouching for selfies with toothy grins and sparkly museum lights in the background. Fathers who didn't vanish. Fathers who didn't forget.

And Henry hadn't called. Not once. Not to ask how Cassie was doing. Not to check in. Not to send a voice memo or a text. Not even to pretend he cared. He hadn't even attempted the halfhearted, court-mandated gestures he sometimes lobbed from across the ocean like apologies folded into paper airplanes—empty, weightless, always crashing short of anything that might matter.

Beth closed her eyes for just a breath, summoning the will to stay grounded. One inhale. One exhale. She had to be steady now. This part of motherhood wasn't about logic or solutions—it was about being the lighthouse in someone else's storm.

"Okay," she murmured at last, smoothing her hand over Cassie's tangled hair, her thumb brushing gently across the downy strands still clinging to childhood softness. She pressed a kiss to her forehead, slow and steady. "We'll just take it slow tonight."

Cassie didn't resist when Beth scooped her up, but she didn't melt into her either. She didn't wrap her arms around Beth's neck or tuck her head under her chin like she always did after a long day. Instead, she clung by the tips of her fingers, grabbing at the drawstrings of Beth's hoodie, twisting them tightly, like she couldn't decide if she wanted closeness or distance—comfort or space. She was heavy now, too big to carry for long, and Beth's arms ached from the long hours spent hunched over the kitchen table earlier, but she didn't let go. Not yet.

"Do you want a snack?" she asked gently as she stepped into the kitchen, keeping her tone light, like they could still salvage the evening with something simple.

"No," Cassie muttered, her voice muffled into Beth's shoulder. It was flat, not angry. Not yet.

Beth crouched down anyway, slowly, carefully, and set her daughter on her feet. She turned toward the pantry, crouching low so Cassie could see the options. "We've got yogurt melts or veggie straws," she offered, glancing over her shoulder with a hopeful smile. "Maybe one of your jelly cups from the fridge?"

"I said no!" Cassie's voice cracked like lightning across the room—sharp, sudden, and raw. The words echoed off the walls and cut through the quiet like a blade. Beth froze in place, hand still resting on the pantry door. She could feel the stillness radiate out around her, palpable. In the living room, Changbin instinctively reached for the remote and muted the television, the colorful swirl of anime flickering silently now across the screen, forgotten.

And then—it unraveled.

"I don't want snacks! I don't want ANYTHING!" Cassie's voice climbed higher, each word shriller than the last, trembling with emotion too big for her small frame. Her fists clenched at her sides, her face turning blotchy, lips trembling as her chest heaved with sobs that hadn't yet fully landed. She stomped one foot, then the other, each thud louder than her frame should've been able to produce. "I don't want snacks, and I don't want Mama, and I don't want jellyfish, and I don't want anything, and I HATE TODAY!"

Beth's heart cracked wide open at the sound.

She didn't say a word as Cassie collapsed to the floor in a heap of grief and rage, her tiny body folding in on itself, forehead pressed into the carpet, fists pounding the ground in a jagged rhythm that felt older than her years. It was the kind of tantrum that wasn't about snacks or bedtime or too much stimulation. It was deeper than that—grief-shaped, jagged at the edges, born of something that didn't have words yet.

Beth caught Changbin's eye across the room. He didn't move, didn't try to interfere, didn't rush forward to fix anything. His expression was carved with quiet understanding—concern, yes, but also something gentler. Something that looked like trust. He stayed where he was, giving them space, anchoring her without taking the wheel.

Beth sank slowly to her knees a few feet away from Cassie, careful not to startle her. She folded her hands in her lap, keeping her voice low and even, a soft current beneath the crashing waves.

"I think something really hurt your heart today," she said gently. "And I think you don't have the words for it yet. That's okay, baby. You don't have to have the words."

Cassie wailed louder, the sound piercing and unfiltered, her fists still thudding against the carpet. Her cries weren't like the ones she made when she scraped her knee or dropped a toy or spilled juice on the floor. These were body-wracking sobs that came from somewhere deep—somewhere sacred and sore and impossibly small.

"I miss my dad!" she cried into the rug, voice breaking in the middle like a snapped thread. "Everyone else had theirs and I don't!"

Beth's breath caught, and she felt something deep and old twist in her stomach. The kind of pain that lived in her bones now. The kind that came with being helpless in the face of another's heartbreak—especially when it mirrored your own. She reached out slowly, brushing her fingers over Cassie's back with the lightest pressure, grounding and present but not intrusive.

"I know, baby," she whispered, her voice rough with emotion. "I know. That's a really, really hard thing to feel."

Cassie kicked her legs once more, then again, until the momentum faded and her limbs began to still. Her body went limp with exhaustion, sobs giving way to hiccups and shuddery breaths, her voice nearly gone from the force of it all. She rolled onto her side, eyes red and glassy, lashes wet and clumped, face flushed and sticky with tears and frustration and something fragile underneath.

Beth didn't rush. She didn't push. She simply opened her arms.

Cassie crawled into them slowly, more like a whisper than a movement, folding herself into Beth's chest with a quiet, trembly sigh. Her fingers grabbed hold of Beth's sleeve and didn't let go.

"I'm here," Beth murmured, her voice barely audible as she curled herself more tightly around her daughter. She pressed her cheek to the crown of Cassie's head and breathed her in like she was something holy, something fragile and sacred and small. Her arms held steady despite the ache blooming in her shoulders, the soreness creeping up from her spine. "I'm not going anywhere," she whispered again, her voice rough with emotion, each word a promise etched into the silence between them. "Even when it's hard. Even when it's loud. I've got you. I've always got you."

Changbin moved beside them a moment later, quiet as breath, his presence sliding into the room like dusk—gentle, shadowed, and unobtrusive. He didn't speak, didn't try to fix anything with words or reach too quickly. He just knelt and offered them what he had: a soft, worn blanket from the edge of the couch and a familiar little plush toy that hadn't surfaced in weeks. Gomi. The green stuffed turtle from Hana's toy kit—the one Cassie used to tuck under her chin during story time, the one that had a little fabric scar stitched over its shell from when its seam had come loose and Beth had tried to sew it herself, hands shaking the whole time.

Cassie reached for the turtle without looking, her fingers closing around it like a lifeline. She pulled it to her chest and tucked it under her chin as she burrowed deeper into Beth's hoodie, breath still hitching every few seconds like her body was trying to convince itself the crying was done.

Beth met Changbin's eyes over the tangle of curls and limbs between them. Her lips shaped a silent thank you, her chest too tight to force the words past it. Changbin nodded, his jaw visibly tense, his gaze soft with something that sat just shy of heartbreak. He didn't smile. Didn't try to ease the moment with levity. He just sat, folding his legs beneath him, and remained there with them—still, steady, silent. A quiet guard against a world that had proven itself too sharp.

The room stilled again, but not the same way it had before. This quiet wasn't restful. It was damp with the residue of sobs and heavy with all the things they didn't say aloud—the hurt that was too old for someone so young, the ache that came with knowing you couldn't always protect your child from the ways love could rot. Beth rocked Cassie gently in her lap, moving in slow, rhythmic circles. Her hand rubbed soft spirals against her daughter's back, feeling every quiver, every flinch, every deep breath that stuttered toward calm. Cassie's curls clung damply to her temple, her shirt stuck to her back with sweat and tears. Gomi was wedged awkwardly between them, one plush flipper pressing insistently into Beth's ribs, and still—she didn't adjust. She didn't shift. She just held on.

Cassie didn't speak, didn't lift her head. She just sucked her thumb quietly, the motion small and instinctive, the way it always was when the world became too much and she ran out of ways to ask for comfort.

"I think she just needs a bath," Beth said softly after a while, her voice hoarse and gravel-edged from emotion and disuse. "Something warm. Familiar."

Changbin nodded once, no hesitation. "I'll get it started."

He didn't ask what she needed. Didn't offer help like it was something to be negotiated. He just stood without a word and disappeared down the hallway, his footsteps muffled against the floor. A moment later, Beth heard the soft creak of the bathroom door, the groan of pipes as the faucet opened, the steady rush of water building into a slow, echoing rhythm through the walls.

Cassie whimpered when he left, a soft, fragile sound that caught in her throat before escaping, and she curled in tighter, pressing her face more firmly into Beth's neck.

"I want to stay here," she whispered, barely audible.

"I know," Beth replied, her voice splintering at the edges. "Just for a little longer, okay?"

She shifted her weight and adjusted their position, letting her body lean back against the wall, even though her spine protested and her hips throbbed from the awkward angle. Her muscles ached from holding too much for too long—emails unanswered, tasks half-done, the heavy, humming pull of exhaustion that only ever came from trying to hold someone else's grief while keeping your own buried. The table behind her was still covered in half-signed forms, checklists, and a laptop that had long since put itself to sleep. Somewhere inside her phone, alarms were still going off, reminders she'd silenced hours ago. None of it mattered now.

All that mattered was the girl in her arms.

Beth rested her cheek against Cassie's curls again, breathing her in. Her scent was a little salty now, a little stale from the long day out—but still familiar. Still hers.

"I know you miss him," Beth murmured, her words so low they barely disturbed the air. "I miss him too sometimes. And I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry he's not doing a good job of showing up right now."

Cassie didn't respond, but her fingers clenched tighter in Beth's hoodie, small knuckles white with strain. Beth felt the pressure of it like a pulse, like proof of every unspoken fear clinging to that little hand.

She closed her eyes, letting the ache settle, letting herself feel it fully for the first time in days. The bitterness. The guilt. The helpless fury at someone who still held a piece of her daughter's heart, even when he had no idea what to do with it. She tried not to hate Henry. She really did. She told herself he was broken too, that pain never passed through a person clean. But God, it was hard. It was so fucking hard.

Several minutes passed before Changbin returned. His steps were soft, measured, and when he crouched beside them again, his voice was pitched so low it felt like a balm.

"Bath's ready," he said. "I found her watermelon bubble soap. The one with the turtle on the bottle."

Beth let out a slow, shaky breath, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. Her voice wavered on the edge of something unspoken. "You're a genius."

Changbin gave a small smile, warm and dry. "I know."

Together, they began the slow process of untangling from the floor. Beth's body protested as she moved, every muscle tight with exhaustion and tension, but Cassie didn't fight her. There was no squirming, no whining, no sudden resistance. She let herself be lifted, limbs limp with the heaviness that always followed a meltdown, her weight sinking into Beth like trust. The tears on her cheeks had dried to sticky salt trails, catching the light in faint glimmers as they passed under the soft hallway glow. Her curls were matted to her forehead, and her thumb hovered near her mouth as if her body couldn't decide whether to retreat into comfort or hold itself upright.

The bathroom was warm with rising steam, already softened by the faint scent of watermelon bubble soap. The tub was half-full, a gentle layer of foam rolling across the surface, bubbles spilling in slow peaks over the porcelain lip. The galaxy nightlight on the counter threw lazy constellations against the wall, shifting with each ripple of mist. It felt like a space suspended from time—small, glowing, safe.

Beth lowered Cassie onto the plush bath rug, the towel beneath her feet already damp with humidity. Changbin was waiting, kneeling without a word, and began gently removing her clothes—layer by layer, like he was unwrapping something precious. His movements were unhurried, reverent. He peeled her sweater over her head, tugged at her leggings, unfastened her shoes—all while keeping one eye on her expression, alert for the smallest sign of overwhelm. He moved like she was made of sea glass: still fragile from the storm, but no longer at risk of shattering.

Once Cassie was stripped down to her underwear, he helped guide her into the tub, holding her hand as she stepped in. She didn't splash or speak, just sank slowly into the warmth with a quiet sigh, her arms curling instinctively around Gomi, who floated alongside her like a sentry. Changbin handed Beth a thick towel before stepping back again, retreating to the hallway without needing to be asked, giving them space the way he always did—without show, without hesitation.

Beth sank onto the tile floor beside the tub, stretching her legs out in front of her and leaning an elbow on the ledge. She dipped her fingers into the water, trailing slow lines through the bubbles, watching them dissolve in lazy swirls. Cassie didn't speak, but she made soft humming noises under her breath, a song without melody, a self-soothing habit that echoed from toddlerhood. Her hands moved methodically, scooping water in her palm and letting it pour down Gomi's plush shell in a slow, practiced rhythm. There was a tension still clinging to her shoulders, but it was loosening—inch by inch, sigh by sigh.

"Good girl," Beth whispered, the words like breath on glass. "Just breathe. We're okay."

She didn't move for a long time, just watched, steady and quiet, until the water began to cool and Cassie's fingers turned pink and pruny, her eyelids starting to lower between moments of focus. When Beth finally lifted her out of the tub, she wrapped her tightly in the towel, bundling her like she had when she was smaller—back before the weight of the world had crept into her bones.

Cassie didn't resist. She leaned against Beth's chest like she was shrinking in age, her body boneless with trust, her skin damp and clean. Her cheek pressed to Beth's collarbone, warm and soft. Beth kissed the top of her head and carried her gently back to the bedroom, where a soft yellow glow from the nightlight illuminated fresh pajamas folded neatly at the foot of the bed. The projector on the dresser spun lazily, scattering stars across the ceiling like hope. Changbin had already turned it on, had already thought of the things Beth hadn't had the strength to.

She dressed Cassie slowly, speaking in a low murmur between each movement. With every button fastened, every cuff rolled, every strand of damp hair brushed back from her face, she whispered reassurances: that she was safe, that she was loved, that she didn't have to be okay yet. Cassie's eyes barely stayed open through the ritual, her thumb sliding back into her mouth, her body sagging with the kind of exhaustion only children knew—raw, spent, and total.

By the time Beth tucked her beneath the covers, her breaths were deep and slow, her limbs sprawled over the mattress in the unconscious sprawl of a child who knew she wouldn't be moved again. Beth slid into the bed beside her, curled around her small frame, and stayed like that until she was certain. Until the breathing evened out. Until the muscles went slack. Until her own heartbeat finally stopped trying to outpace the clock.

Only then did she pull herself carefully from the sheets and step back into the hallway.

The apartment was quiet again, dim except for the ambient light from the kitchen. The sound of the microwave humming was the only thing breaking the silence. When Beth turned the corner, she saw Changbin standing by the counter, back slightly hunched, slowly stirring something in a ceramic bowl. The scent of ginger and scallion filled the air—soft, savory, soothing. Something warm and simple. Something meant to say: you don't have to carry this alone.

He looked up the moment she appeared, and in that instant, everything in his expression changed. Not dramatically—not with worry or alarm—but with quiet understanding, the kind that cracked open her composure more than anything else could have. His eyes held no expectations, just that steady, grounding affection that had kept her tethered all night.

"She's asleep," Beth said quietly, her voice raw and small, like it didn't quite belong to her.

Changbin didn't answer immediately. He opened the microwave, stirred whatever he was warming—soup, maybe—and closed the door again with a soft, controlled click. The hum filled the space between them. So did the weight of everything unsaid, lingering like fog at the edge of the room. Beth stood there for a beat, arms crossed over her middle—not defensive, but like she was holding herself in. Holding everything in. She didn't move forward at first. Just watched him.

But then he turned to her.

Just a simple movement—shoulders angled, gaze lifting—but it brought the full weight of his attention to her. That same soft, steady look. The one that never flinched when things got hard, never slipped past her pain like it was inconvenient. The one that told her, without words, that she was seen. That he wasn't going anywhere. That he could hold this, too.

And that was it.

Something cracked wide open.

Beth's hands flew to her face as the breath caught hard in her throat. A raw, choking sound clawed its way out—half sob, half gasp, all unraveling. Her whole body folded in on itself like something inside had finally buckled under the pressure, like the world had leaned just a little too hard on her spine and this time, she couldn't hold.

"I can't—" she started, voice splintered, jagged. "I can't believe that just happened."

Then, without grace or planning, she sank to the floor. Her knees gave out, her legs folding beneath her as her body collapsed onto the cold kitchen tile. The sobs tore free the moment her palms hit the ground—messy, unfiltered, gasping around her knuckles. Her chest heaved. Her shoulders shook. The kind of crying that didn't come with warning. The kind that had been waiting too long.

Changbin didn't hesitate.

He dropped beside her in a heartbeat, like gravity had pulled him there. His legs tucked under him, arms already reaching. One hand came to rest gently on her back, firm and grounding, while the other found her wrist and coaxed her hands away from her face—not forcefully, just enough to see her. Just enough to remind her she wasn't alone.

"Hey," he said, low and even. "Hey. It's okay. You don't have to do this alone."

Beth shook her head, sharp and violent, as fresh tears spilled down her cheeks in hot, stinging streams. Her eyes were wide and wild, rimmed red, her voice rasping through clenched teeth.

"She doesn't do that," she said, as if she couldn't believe it even now. "She doesn't do tantrums. Not like that. Not ever. I've had... maybe two with her. And they were normal. Little things. Getting dressed. Brushing teeth. That—" Her voice fractured, snapped clean in half. "That was grief, Changbin. That was abandonment. And she's five. She's five."

"I know," he murmured. He didn't try to soften it or reframe it. Just met the truth head-on. "I saw."

Beth's hands trembled as she wiped her sleeve across her eyes, but it did nothing to stop the tears. Her face was flushed and blotchy, mouth twisted in something between pain and guilt.

"I didn't know how to fix it," she whispered, her voice breaking down into smaller pieces with every syllable. "I didn't know what to do. I just sat there while she screamed. I couldn't make it better."

Changbin's reply came without hesitation, firm and unwavering. "You did."

She looked at him then, incredulous. Her breath hitched again, uneven and cracked.

"You held her," he said, his hand still warm on her back. "You stayed. You didn't leave or try to quiet her or make her feel wrong for falling apart. That's all she needed. That's more than most people ever get. More than he's ever given her."

Beth let out a shuddering breath, bitter and sharp. She pressed her sleeve to her mouth as her chest twisted, as the ache curled deeper into her bones.

"I hate him," she said, and the words came out like something scraped from the bottom of her soul. They weren't new words. She'd thought them before. But tonight, they didn't feel theoretical. They didn't feel careful. They felt exposed—stripped raw and bleeding at the edges, like she didn't want to admit them but had no choice.

"I hate him for not calling. I hate him for showing up only when it benefits him. I hate that she still wants him, still needs him, even though he doesn't deserve her. I hate that I have to undo all the damage he's doing without even being here. Like I'm fighting a ghost I can't touch."

That was when Changbin wrapped his arms around her completely.

Not tentative. Not light.

He pulled her in with quiet strength, tucking her against his chest as if he could absorb the impact himself, as if maybe—just maybe—if he held her tight enough, she wouldn't have to carry it all anymore. One of his hands cupped the back of her head, fingers threaded into her hair, while the other curled around her back, warm and unmoving.

"I know," he whispered into the crown of her head, his voice low and steady, the kind of whisper that didn't need to be louder to be true. "I know. And you're allowed to hate him. You're allowed to feel every bit of this."

Beth let herself cry again—not the sharp, uncontrolled sobs from before, but a quieter kind of weeping, the kind that came after the storm had passed but left the ground soaked and heavy. She stayed tucked beneath the weight of his arms, surrounded by the scent of his sweatshirt and the rhythm of his breathing, which she could feel against her cheek in steady, grounding pulses. Her fingers clung to the front of his hoodie like it was the only solid thing left to hold. Like if she let go, the floor might give way beneath her.

"I'm so tired," she breathed, the words thin and trembling, not loud but threaded with exhaustion so deep it vibrated through her bones. "I'm so tired of being strong. Of being the only one who holds it together when she breaks down. Of pretending I'm not breaking too."

Changbin didn't move to hush her. He didn't offer platitudes or try to patch over the cracks in her voice. He simply stayed with her, unwavering, a quiet mountain in the middle of her collapse. His hand moved slowly, brushing along her spine in slow, measured circles, and when he spoke, it was soft but sure.

"You don't have to pretend," he murmured. "Not with me. Not ever."

Beth shook her head where it rested against his chest, her cheek pressed into the damp cotton of his sweatshirt. The fabric was warm with their shared heat, soaked now with tears that hadn't stopped flowing entirely. Her voice came again, muffled and thick, as if she could barely push the words out through the heaviness in her throat.

"But she can't see me fall apart," she whispered. "She needs me to be okay. She needs to believe I'm strong enough to keep her safe, even when I'm not."

Changbin let the silence stretch for a moment before responding, his voice like a balm poured gently over the ache.

"She knows you're doing your best," he said. "She feels it. Even if she can't name it yet, she knows. You're her whole world, Beth. And tonight—when everything inside her cracked wide open—she still reached for you. Not me. Not Hana. Not anyone else. She wanted you."

Beth's breathing slowed—not entirely steady yet, but the ragged edges began to dull. Her shoulders trembled less. The shaking in her arms softened to a tired ache instead of a trembling quake. One of her hands slipped from his hoodie and rested lightly on his thigh, not gripping now, just touching, as if the need for tethering had slowly turned into a quiet trust.

"I'm scared," she admitted, the words coming like a confession peeled from deep within her chest. "Scared of what this is doing to her. Of what he'll say the next time he calls. Of how much longer I can protect her from who he really is. What happens when she's old enough to see it all for herself?"

Changbin shifted just enough to look at her, not pulling away but angling so she could see his face, so she could feel his words coming from someplace anchored. "Then we tell her the truth," he said, steady and certain. "Not now. Not all at once. But when she's ready. When you're ready. We tell her that love isn't just words or birthdays or calls when it's convenient. Love is showing up. Love is staying. And she'll know that because of you. You've been showing her every day."

Beth blinked, her lashes wet and heavy. Another tear slipped loose down her cheek before she could stop it. Her lip trembled.

"You really think I'm doing okay?" she asked, her voice small, as if she still didn't quite believe it could be true.

Changbin reached up, his palm cupping the curve of her cheek with the gentleness of someone touching something sacred. His thumb brushed the dampness away, slow and careful, like he wanted to erase more than just the tear.

"I think you're doing better than okay," he said quietly, but with no less conviction. "I think you're doing the impossible. And somehow, you're still making her feel safe enough to fall apart when she needs to. That's not failure. That's love. That's grace."

Beth leaned into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut for just a moment, and then—finally—let out a breath that had been trapped somewhere under her ribs for what felt like hours. It came loose all at once, shaky and full, a quiet release that didn't need words to explain it.

"Will you stay?" she asked, her voice barely more than a breath. There was no drama in it, no pressure. Just truth.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, and there was no hesitation. Not even a flicker of doubt.

And he meant it.

So they stayed there—on the kitchen floor, tangled in each other like armor, like prayer, like the only thing holding the world in place. Around them, the apartment stood quiet and dim, the microwave long since finished reheating its contents. Outside, the world moved on, cars passing, lights blinking, wind nudging the trees—but in here, in this small circle of stillness, everything slowed.