Chapter 72

Steam clung to the mirror in soft curls, the glass clouded with the last remnants of her shower. The scent of lavender soap lingered in the air, curling around her like a promise of calm. Beth stepped onto the cool tile floor, her bare feet pressing softly against the grout lines as the plush hem of the robe skimmed her calves. It wasn't hers—technically—but Alex had handed it over with a wave and a grin, declaring it a "temporary adoption from the guest closet," and Beth hadn't fought her on it. The fabric was thick, warm, absurdly soft. She pulled it tighter with one hand, the other cradled in the sling that still held her right shoulder immobile. The pain had dulled now—no longer sharp, but ever-present. A quiet ache beneath the skin.

Water still dripped from the ends of her hair, trailing down her spine in lazy rivulets. She padded into the hallway, the muffled hush of the apartment wrapping around her. Floating shelves lined the walls, cluttered with framed photos and small plants that somehow never seemed to wilt in Alex's care. The quiet murmur of voices guided her forward, low and indistinct at first. She smiled faintly, already picturing Changbin in the kitchen—probably standing shoulder to shoulder with Lee Know, elbow-deep in some chaotic snack raid while mocking each other in that language of affection only they understood.

But when she reached the edge of the living room, she stopped short.

It wasn't Changbin in the kitchen. It wasn't Lee Know, or any of the usual chaos.

It was Han Jisung.

On the couch.

And Cassie—her daughter—tucked right into his side like she'd always belonged there.

Beth froze, one hand curling around the edge of the doorway. Her breath hitched, caught somewhere between surprise and something warmer. Something she couldn't name yet.

Jisung sat cross-legged, a fluffy cream-colored blanket thrown over his lap like he'd been settled there for a while. Cassie was curled against him, her favorite sea turtle hoodie bunched slightly around her waist, a plushie tucked under one arm and a half-eaten chocolate chip granola bar in the other. Her cheek was squished against his shoulder, leaving a faint smear of chocolate near the collar of his shirt. He didn't seem to notice. Or care.

She was talking. Animated. Her voice rising and falling in that lilting cadence she used when she was deep in her "ocean school" mode—half play, half lecture. Beth caught only fragments at first. Something about orcas. Then—

"Nooo," Cassie said, her tone thick with know-it-all glee. "But they have beaks. Like birds. See, Gomi has one too."

Jisung tilted his head, genuinely listening, and leaned down to examine the stuffed turtle in her lap with exaggerated scrutiny. "Whoa," he murmured, eyes wide in mock reverence. "That's kind of metal."

Cassie beamed. "Do you wanna play ocean school?"

There was a pause. Barely a second.

Then Jisung shrugged with a kind of theatrical nonchalance, like it was no big deal at all. "Sure. But only if I can be a squid."

Cassie gasped—an actual, full-bodied, open-mouthed gasp, like he'd just declared himself king of the ocean and sworn to battle Poseidon himself. Her granola bar wobbled dangerously in her fist as she leaned forward with wide, scandalized eyes. "Squids are hard!"

"Exactly," he said, lips curling into a grin that was all mischief and challenge, like he knew exactly the effect he was having. "I like a challenge."

Something twisted in Beth's chest—sharp and sudden, then soft. It wasn't pain. Not really. Just unexpected pressure. Something tight and full behind her ribs. Something that felt... tender. Sacred, even, in that rare and quiet way you don't see coming until it's already sunk teeth into your heart.

She stepped further into the room on instinct, barefoot and slow, her robe trailing behind her. The hem caught slightly on the hallway rug, but she barely felt it. Her throat was thick—clogged with something unspeakable—and her voice came low, careful, as if raising it might shatter the delicate thing blooming in front of her.

"Hey," she said gently, barely above a whisper.

Jisung looked up immediately, eyes catching hers in a heartbeat. He didn't flinch like someone caught red-handed, didn't jolt like a teenager busted mid-party. He just straightened a little, blinked, and stared at her with that unguarded openness she so rarely saw in adults—let alone in someone like him. His expression was soft but unreadable, not because he was hiding anything, but because he was feeling too many things at once. There was no performance here. Just him. A little tired around the eyes. A little startled. But steady. Present.

"Oh," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry, she just—uh—wanted to show me her turtle? And then there was this whole jellyfish versus octopus thing, and—"

"She's fine," Beth said quickly, holding up a hand to stop him from stumbling over his explanation. "I'm not mad. Just... surprised."

Cassie took that as permission to resume flailing her snack like a wand. "Mommy, Jisung doesn't know how turtles breathe!"

Beth's mouth curved, small but real. "Well," she murmured, walking farther in, "I guess he's in the right class, then."

Cassie nodded solemnly, like a headmistress confirming a new pupil.

Jisung cleared his throat, clearly trying to save face. "She said I could be the squid. But honestly, I think I'm more of a panicking seal."

That got a real smile out of her—one that curled slow and warm at the corners of her mouth, tugging past the fatigue in her bones. She tilted her head, eyes scanning him with quiet amusement. "Squid suits you," she said softly.

And just like that, something shifted. His shoulders dropped a fraction, like she'd untied a knot he hadn't noticed was there.

Beth made her way to the couch and lowered herself carefully onto the armrest, the motion deliberate, her weight shifting with a kind of practiced gentleness. One hand braced against the cushion for balance, the other drew the damp edges of her robe tighter across her ribs, fingers curling into the fabric like it might anchor her. Water clung to the ends of her hair, dripping in slow, rhythmic beads onto her collarbone—each one a cool reminder of the unfinished bath she'd abandoned when Cassie squealed for her "squid teacher."

She didn't push the wet strands back. Didn't wipe at her skin. The moment felt too fragile to disturb, like the hush before a storm or the breathless quiet that came after. Some part of her was afraid that even the smallest movement might cause it all to dissolve.

She'd never seen him like this before.

Not on stage, where he moved like music lived in his bones—fluid and electric, never still for more than a second. Not in rehearsals, where his relentless pursuit of perfection was always dressed in sarcasm and wit, hiding the sharp edges beneath. Not in the green rooms or narrow corridors backstage, where he buzzed from one person to another like a live wire, too charged to rest. Jisung was usually pure momentum, a barely-contained storm of chatter and energy, jokes stacked on top of truths he rarely let anyone see.

But now—

He was still.

There was a softness to him she hadn't expected, something vulnerable and startling in its quiet. His legs were criss-crossed on the rug, his hands folded loosely in his lap. The plush turtle—Gomi, Cassie had informed her earlier with great solemnity—sat between them like a peace offering. And his whole body leaned just slightly toward her daughter, toward the tiny world she was constructing with her stuffed animals and her fearless heart.

Beth watched him, her fingers absently rubbing a damp spot into the fabric of her robe.

"You're good with her," she said finally, her voice low and sure. It came out softer than she intended, but with no less conviction.

Jisung's head turned toward her slowly. He blinked, caught off guard, like the words had landed somewhere he wasn't used to being touched. "Yeah?" he asked, and the word held an edge of hesitation—uncertain, like he didn't quite know how to hold the compliment without breaking it.

She nodded, eyes steady. "Yeah. She doesn't let just anyone teach ocean school."

That pulled a small smile from him—crooked, fleeting. He glanced down at Cassie, who was now meticulously arranging her plushies into a semi-circle like a preschool class mid-lesson. Her brow was furrowed in concentration as she positioned a plastic shark next to a dolphin and murmured something about seating charts.

"She's... kind of amazing," Jisung said, the words barely above a whisper. There was wonder in his tone, like he was still trying to wrap his mind around the force of nature that was Beth's daughter.

Beth's lips curved. She didn't say anything—just let the moment stretch, warm and still.

Then, without looking up, Jisung added, "She said something about... dads. How she has one now. A real one. The one she picked. Not the one who tried to take her."

Beth's breath caught in her throat like a thread pulled too tight.

She didn't move—not a blink, not a twitch—but something inside her recoiled. Not from him. From the ache he touched with those quiet words. From the wound she usually kept stitched up tight. Something deep and bruised flinched, and it took her a second to steady herself around it.

"I don't know what that's like," Jisung murmured, softer now, as though the volume might shatter something fragile between them. He wasn't looking at her anymore—just into the middle distance, his voice spilling into the still air like a thought he hadn't meant to say aloud. "But I think she's really brave."

Beth turned toward him, slow and deliberate. She really looked at him this time. Not just a glance, but an honest study—the set of his shoulders, the raw edge in his voice, the way his fingers fidgeted absently with the hem of his hoodie.

He wasn't trying to fix anything.

Wasn't trying to distract her or patch over the silence with jokes or platitudes. He was just... here. Present. Sitting beside her in the heavy quiet, without demanding it shift or lighten or disappear.

Sitting with her.

Her voice, when it came, was almost a whisper. "You are too."

His head turned sharply, eyes flicking to hers with startled vulnerability. He didn't answer, didn't shrug or smile or brush it off like she half-expected him to. He just let the words hang there, like he wasn't quite sure how to catch them.

Beth leaned forward slightly, reaching out with instinctive tenderness to smooth a loose curl from Cassie's forehead. The little girl didn't even look up. She was far too engrossed in the scene unfolding before her—a stern reprimand issued to her plastic dolphin, who had apparently been talking during story time. The turtle, recently promoted to principal, stood nearby in solemn witness.

"You didn't have to come today," Beth said after a beat, her eyes still on her daughter.

"I didn't want to be alone."

Her fingers paused in Cassie's hair.

The words were simple. Unadorned. But they landed like something sacred.

Beth looked up slowly and met his gaze again. And in the hush that followed—in the golden haze of afternoon light filtering through the living room curtains, with the scent of lavender shampoo still clinging to her sleeves and the dull ache of old trauma settling heavy in her shoulder—she saw him clearly.

Han Jisung looked tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the kind that lived in the marrow. Like someone who'd carried too much for too long, and learned somewhere along the way that it was safer not to ask to be held. He sat beside her like someone who wasn't used to soft places but was trying, just this once, to trust the ground beneath him.

"Stay for dinner," Beth said softly, her voice warm with quiet invitation. It wasn't casual, not really. Not tossed out as filler. It was a choice—deliberate, steady. Like a stone placed gently in the palm of someone who needed the weight of it.

Changbin's brows lifted in surprise, and his mouth parted slightly, like he hadn't dared to hope for the offer. "Yeah?" he asked, voice catching just a little on the edge of disbelief.

Beth gave a small nod, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles—barely there, but real. "You already passed the turtle test," she said, tilting her head slightly toward the living room with a glint of mischief in her eyes. "Might as well stay for food."

From the kitchen, a voice rang out in mock irritation: "If anyone says we're ordering pizza, I swear to God I'm cooking!"

Beth didn't even glance in that direction. She lifted her chin and called back smoothly, "Chef Lee Know it is."

That earned an immediate response from Changbin—loud, cheerful, unmistakably pleased. "That's a win for everyone!"

A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Light and unexpected, like a hiccup of happiness breaking through the fog. It startled her, but it didn't feel wrong. It felt... good. Like muscle memory coming back after an injury.

On the rug, Cassie remained wholly unfazed by the adult back-and-forth, her focus laser-sharp as she tugged at Jisung's sleeve with the urgency of a tiny scientist mid-breakthrough.

"Do squids have feelings?" she asked, her expression solemn, as if the answer could shift the axis of her world.

Jisung froze. "Uh..."

He looked at Beth, wide-eyed, as if she might throw him a lifeline.

Beth just leaned back into the couch cushion with an amused glint in her eye. "You're on your own, Mr. Feelings Squid."

Jisung looked mildly panicked. Cassie, in contrast, was resolute—perched cross-legged on the rug, Gomi the turtle now seated squarely in her lap like a fuzzy emotional support principal. Her eyes didn't waver.

"Because octopuses cry when they're sad," she explained, as if clarifying the stakes of the question. "But squids just ink. That's different."

Jisung tilted his head thoughtfully. "I think squids have... performance anxiety."

Cassie narrowed her eyes at him. "What's that?"

Beth choked on a breath and turned her head sharply, pretending to cough into her sleeve.

Jisung's face went pink. "I mean—uh—it's like... sometimes squids get nervous before doing big, brave things. Like swimming really fast. Or ink-spurting under pressure."

Cassie nodded slowly, absorbing the information like a marine biologist on the cusp of publishing a major paper. "I think you're a feelings squid," she declared with finality.

Jisung blinked, startled. Then, softly, "I... okay. I'll take that."

Cassie nodded again, satisfied. "Some people are turtles," she added wisely. "And some people are squids. Mommy is a swordfish because she's strong and pointy."

Beth made a sound between a snort and a gasp. "Oh my god," she muttered under her breath.

But Jisung just looked at her, that soft crooked smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. And for the first time in what felt like days—or maybe weeks—Beth saw something shift in him. Something unarmored. Something warm.

"Strong and pointy," he echoed, tilting his head. "You should put that on your Golden Stag business card."

Beth rolled her eyes. "I'm ignoring you."

The sharp clink of pans came from the kitchen, followed by Minho's unmistakable voice rising in dramatic exasperation. "I swear to God, if someone doesn't get in here and stir this risotto, I'm throwing it out the window!"

"I'll do it!" Changbin yelled back. "Don't poison our guests, Minho!"

Cassie gasped theatrically, eyes wide. "You're making rice soup?"

Minho stuck his head around the doorway, a wooden spoon in hand and the expression of a man one wrong comment away from culinary homicide. "It's risotto, Cassie. There's a difference."

She didn't flinch. Just lifted Gomi by one flipper and waved him regally. "We'll allow it."

Jisung was laughing now, really laughing—soft and genuine, the kind of sound that made Beth's chest tighten in the best way. She watched him, this boy with heavy shadows behind his eyes, now barefoot on a pastel rug with a granola wrapper being pressed into his knee by a five-year-old marine philosopher. He looked... lighter. Not healed. But maybe healing.

"You ever babysit?" she asked suddenly, her tone easy but not without intention.

He blinked. "What?"

Beth reached for a hair tie from the edge of the table, twisting her damp hair into a loose bun with one hand. "You're good at it," she said simply. "Cassie doesn't warm up to people that fast unless she trusts them."

Jisung looked down at the child beside him, now fully engrossed in peeling the sticker off her granola bar like it held the secrets of the sea. She was entirely at peace.

"I don't think anyone's ever trusted me with something like that," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

Beth stilled.

Then, gently, Beth murmured, "Then it's about time someone did." She turned her head just enough to meet Jisung's eyes again, her voice steady but warm. "Why don't you and Minho take her out sometime? Just for a bit."

Jisung blinked like he hadn't heard her right. Or maybe like the words made sense but hadn't found their footing yet. "Take her out?" he echoed, his brows knitting together in confusion.

Beth gave a casual shrug, though the suggestion wasn't casual at all. It carried weight—trust, risk, maybe even a little hope. "Not alone," she clarified, "not yet. But yeah. The park. The aquarium. The bookstore. She'd love it."

Cassie, who had been quietly nibbling the last crumbs of her granola bar, perked up like someone had flipped a switch. Her eyes lit up with immediate excitement. "Can we go to the big tank again?" she asked eagerly, her hands already waving for emphasis. "The one with the stingrays?" She twisted in place to face Jisung fully, practically bouncing in place. "You can be the squid and Minho can be the eel!"

Jisung looked completely blindsided, like someone had handed him a live grenade wrapped in sparkly tissue paper and told him it was a party favor. "Wait, hold on, I—Minho's the eel?" he sputtered, as if that detail was somehow the most unbelievable part of all this.

Beth arched a knowing brow. "Got a better sea creature for him?"

He paused, visibly considering. "Moray eel kind of suits him," he decided eventually. "Mean, slinky, bites people. Yeah."

From the kitchen, Minho's voice rang out with sharp timing and unmistakable disdain. "I heard that, squid boy."

Cassie collapsed into a giggle fit, one hand over her mouth and the other clutching the couch cushion like she might fall over from joy. Jisung glanced down at her—this tiny, chaotic human glued to his side like she'd always belonged there. Her hoodie was slightly askew, her ponytail lopsided, one sock slouched halfway down her ankle. A sticky patch from the granola bar was slowly imprinting itself onto his jeans, and she didn't care. Not even a little. She looked up at him with wide, unblinking eyes like he was already familiar. Already safe. Already hers.

He cleared his throat, the sound low and rough in the back of his throat. When he spoke again, his voice had softened. "You'd really let me do that?" he asked, eyes flicking briefly to Beth. "Take her somewhere?"

Beth didn't even hesitate. "Yeah," she said simply. "If you want to."

Something shifted in Jisung's posture. Not a dramatic movement—just a small, quiet uncoiling, like something inside him that had been braced for rejection finally dared to relax. Like a latch had come undone somewhere deep in his chest.

"I do," he said, his voice steadier now. "I really do."

Beth's lips curled into a small smile. Not forced. Not polite. Just real.

And Jisung, in that moment, looked impossibly young and deeply old all at once. Like someone who hadn't slept right in months but had just been handed a flashlight in the dark. His edges weren't erased—they were still jagged, still raw—but they curved inward now, shaped gently around the small girl nestled beside him, who had apparently decided without fanfare or permission that he belonged to her.

"I'll ask Minho," he added, still sounding like he was getting used to the idea of speaking his thoughts aloud. "We'll... make it a whole thing. Ocean school field trip."

Cassie gasped, her mouth forming a perfect O. "Can we bring snacks? And name the fish? And buy Gomi a new hat?!"

Jisung nodded solemnly, slipping easily into her rhythm. "Absolutely. Every squid needs a mission."

Beth let her head tip back against the couch, her spine sinking deeper into the cushions as the ache in her muscles slowly quieted. The comfort of the robe, the low hum of kitchen activity, the soft sounds of trust being built right in front of her—all of it sank into her bones. She wasn't used to this part. The after. The staying. The ordinary magic of people not just showing up, but choosing to remain.

Cassie launched to her feet, energized again, and sprinted to her backpack. She returned triumphantly with a sticker book in hand and dropped it squarely in Jisung's lap. "You need decoration," she declared, fully serious. "All good squids have sparkles."

Jisung glanced down at the glittery dolphins and wavy seaweed stickers like she'd just handed him a knight's ceremonial sash. "Do I get to pick where they go?"

Cassie crossed her arms and gave him a look that would've impressed Minho. "Only if you earn them."

He lifted an eyebrow. "And how do I do that?"

She leaned in close, lowering her voice like she was sharing state secrets. "You have to make Mommy laugh."

Beth snorted instantly, caught off guard. It burst out of her nose before she could stop it.

Cassie beamed, pointing proudly. "That count!"

Jisung grinned, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that looked more like him than she'd seen in weeks. "Half a point?" he guessed.

"You're getting there," Cassie decreed, already reaching for the glitter stickers.

From the kitchen, Minho's voice echoed again, now layered with irritation and the faint clang of a pot lid. "Risotto's done, chaos crew. If you want to eat it warm, get your asses in here."

Cassie shrieked "YAY RICE SOUP" and bolted, the sticker book abandoned in her wake like forgotten treasure.

Jisung stood more slowly, still holding the book like it was fragile, like it meant more than he could explain. Beth rose too, adjusting the sling on her shoulder with a practiced grimace, her damp hair now tied loosely at the nape of her neck.

"Hey," she said quietly, before he could follow Cassie into the kitchen.

He turned back, waiting.

"Thank you," she said. Just that. Nothing flowery. "For showing up. For being soft with her. For letting her name you a squid and not making her feel weird about it."

Jisung blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity. "She's... kind of hard to say no to," he said finally.

Beth smiled. "She gets that from me."

His laugh this time was softer. Warmer. "That's not a bad thing."

Beth tilted her head slightly, taking in the boy in front of her who'd looked like a storm cloud just a week ago and now looked like he might finally believe the sun could break through.

"Hey, Jisung?" she asked again, her voice a little lower.

"Yeah?"

"If you ever need a place to breathe... You know, outside of performing squid duties or cooking risotto with eel boy..." She let the corner of her mouth lift. "...this door's open."

He didn't answer right away.

He just looked at her—really looked. Like he was weighing that offer in both hands, checking for strings, expecting the catch... and finding none.

Then, after a long beat, he nodded.

"Thanks," he said. "I think I might take you up on that."