The evening winds down, and the kids cling to me with a tenacity that both warms and breaks my heart. Their small hands in mine felt like the most natural thing in the world for all that they're nearly completely new to me. Inha, catching on to their insistent looks, divides the tasks with a nod.
"You get the bedtime story ready, I'll wrangle them into pajamas," he murmurs, ushering the younger ones towards the bath with a practiced ease that suggests this is a well-rehearsed routine.
I nod, finding my way to what I assume is Seulgi's bedroom by the amount of pink. The shelves are lined with books ranging from fairy tales to adventures. I select a book at random, its spine creased from frequent use—a story about a magical forest and the creatures within.
One by one, Inha brings them in, their hair damp and smelling of soap, wearing pajamas adorned with everything from unicorns to dinosaurs. Yuji and Seungho argue over who gets to sit closest until I pat the bed beside me.
"Everyone can hear just fine," I assure them, smirking.
They settle around me like planets orbiting a sun—each in their own space but undeniably connected. My voice wavers as I begin to read, the words feeling odd on my tongue. The children's eyes grow heavy as the story unfolds, their earlier energy fading into the calm of impending sleep.
As the final page turns and the magical creatures find their peace, so too does my audience drift off one by one. Yunho's head lolls against my shoulder while Seungi sprawls out at my feet. Seulgi snores quietly from my lap.
I meet the eyes of Yuji, who is still awake but with heavy eyes, and Seungho who is blinking to keep himself up. I jerk my head to indicate they get up. The two elder children climb quietly to their feet and pad to their respective rooms. Inha, coming in from the hall, helps me tuck Seulgi into her bed then we grab the other two sleeping boys and carry them back to their rooms, Inha pointing out Yunho's—who I'm carrying in my arms—next to Seungi's.
"Goodnight," I whisper as I tuck him in, placing a soft kiss on his forehead. Which feels natural.
Inha lingers in the doorway, his gaze softening as he watches me.
With all five children asleep in their beds, I step back into the hallway. Inha offers me a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"They love you so much," he says quietly. "You're amazing with them."
I return his smile with one of my own, hopeful that at least with the kids I can seamlessly fit into their lives.
The silence between Inha and me stretches, charged with the electricity of unspoken words. The hum of the city outside seems to amplify the stillness. Inha breaks the silence, his voice gentle.
"Come, let's sit down. We've got a lot to catch up on, don't we?" He gestures toward the living area, his posture open and inviting.
I nod, my pulse jumping as I follow him. The couch is plush, and as I sink into it, it seems to mold to my form—like it already knows my shape.
Inha settles beside me, leaving a respectful distance between us. His gaze is steady, searching, as if trying to find the woman he knew in the depths of my eyes.
"How is it so far?" he begins, his voice low and steady. "Does it feel comfortable? Like … Like it's home?" He waves his hand around vaguely.
I let out a short laugh and shake my head. "I don't know. My eighteen-year-old brain is trying to wrap my head around the fact I own a penthouse apartment and have five kids, to be honest. I'm not sure how I'm going to fit into this life yet."
"You don't have to fit into anything," Inha says earnestly. "You can make it your own, whatever that looks like now."
His assurance helps ease my anxiety a little. At least I have someone to help me through it. We sit there for a moment in companionable silence.
Inha rises to his feet in a fluid motion. "Wine?" he offers, already moving toward the kitchen.
"Sure," I reply, the word coming out like a squeak. My brain being reset to eighteen, I don't know anything about alcohol outside a few guilty sips of my parent's champagne at New Year. Do I drink wine now?
He returns moments later, a bottle of red in one hand and two glasses in the other. Pouring with practiced ease, he fills both glasses before extending one toward me. Our fingers brush as I take it from him, a spark igniting at the contact. His touch lingers just a second longer than necessary, a silent communication that sends heat rushing through my veins.
He settles back into his seat, mirroring my position with his own glass cradled in his hand. "Ask me anything," he encourages, his voice smooth like the wine that swirls in my glass. "Whatever you need to know to feel at ease."
The invitation opens a floodgate of questions in my mind, each one jockeying for priority. I take a small sip of wine, buying myself time as the rich flavor dances across my tongue.
The warmth from the wine radiates through me, a pleasant buzz that loosens my tongue. "Yul mentioned earlier how he felt when we were first matched," I start, swirling the dark liquid in my glass. "He said he accepted the match without even reading my profile. What about you? What was your first impression of me?"
Inha chuckles, a rich sound that fills the space between us. He leans back into the couch, his gaze drifting off as if he's digging through thoughts. "I haven't thought about that in a long time," he admits with a wistful smile. "We've been married for more than eight years now."
I wait, anticipation hanging in the air.
He sets his glass down, the clink of crystal against wood punctuating his confession. "I was twenty-two when we matched. And, well, I'm a bit embarrassed to admit I didn't give it the serious thought I probably should have. When I saw your profile—your photo and the few lines about who you were—I was struck. I accepted without hesitation."
He pauses, I can almost visualize that moment in his eyes. "I didn't consider whether it would be a bad fit later on. I just saw you and thought… 'Wow.' That was it for me."
I smile at his candidness, touched by the raw honesty in his voice. I can tell he's not just telling me this to make conversation—it's a genuine slice of vulnerability.
Inha's admission seems to shrink the space between us. He takes a deep breath, his gaze on mine.
"The day we met in person," he continues, a slight flush creeping up his neck, "I knew I was going to fall in love with you. It wasn't just your looks, which are stunning, by the way." He gives me a small, playful wink that brings a small lift to my lips as well. "It was the way you carried yourself, your laugh, the sparkle in your eyes when you talked about your dreams. I remember thinking I would marry you right there in that café if you'd let me."
His words work their way beneath whatever armor I'd worn into this conversation, just like that. Or perhaps a different version of me was already disarmed by him. This man before me, my husband, exudes such certainty and warmth it's hard not to be swept away by him. Doesn't hurt that he's drop-dead gorgeous either with that dark hair pushed over his brow and those deep-set chocolate eyes that seem to pin me to the spot.
I lean forward, my elbows resting on my knees as I study him. "And did I seem like I might have said yes?" I ask, half-joking yet genuinely curious about the woman he knew—the woman I'm supposed to be.
Inha's laughter rings out again, easy and genuine. "I think you would've told me to get fucked actually," he says, his eyes crinkling with the memory. "You were not impressed with me at all."
I blink but then smirk. Now that does sound a little bit more like me, and it's true I've never been much impressed by the flashy rich boys trying to buy my attention.
"It sounds like I was sensible," I muse aloud.
"Sensible and spontaneous," Inha corrects with a nod. "You never shied away from telling me exactly what was on your mind."
The laughter from Inha surprises me, its sound a mixture of fondness and a touch of disbelief. He leans in, elbows on his knees, mirroring my posture. His face wears an expression that's both teasing and affectionate.
"No, you didn't like me much at all," he admits, his eyes glinting with the humor of the memory. "You found me arrogant and overbearing. Said I was used to getting my way and that you weren't just another thing to be 'won'."
I cock my head to the side, processing this. The idea that I'd rejected him, even initially, seems almost comical given the life we've apparently built together.
Inha's eyes dance with a mischievous light as he recounts our early days. "You thought I was shallow," he says, leaning back against the plush cushions of the couch. "And honestly, you weren't wrong. I was a bit self-absorbed back then, a little big-headed and cocky."
He takes a sip of wine, his gaze never leaving mine. "Mostly, you agreed to meet up with me because you wanted to make the match work, not because you were really interested. You had this idea that love should be more… profound."
I listen intently, absorbing his words like they're pieces of a puzzle.
"The first few months," Inha continues, setting his glass down on the coffee table with a soft clink, "I was chasing after you. Trying to show you there was more to me than the silver spoon I was born with." His lips quirk up in a self-deprecating smile. "I had to work hard to get you to even consider me as someone worth your time."
A laugh escapes me, unbidden and genuine. The thought of this confident man before me having to chase anyone is amusing. Yet, there's a warmth spreading through my chest at the idea that he tried so hard for me.
"When did it change?" I find myself asking, my curiosity piqued. "When did I stop thinking you were just some entitled rich guy and start seeing you… well, as someone I could actually love?"
Inha's face grows contemplative, the humor fading into a more serious expression as he searches his memories. He leans back into the couch, his fingers tapping a silent rhythm on the armrest.
"I don't know for sure," he finally says, his voice thoughtful. "You were always so independent, so sure of what you wanted out of life. You agreed to go through with the wedding because we made sense on paper and our families got along. You were warm, kind, but it was like you had this wall up."
He pauses, looking at me as if trying to see through to the past version of me. "But then… I think it was almost a year after we were married. There was a shift in you. You started opening up more, laughing more easily around me, seeking me out instead of just tolerating my presence."
His eyes meet mine, I can tell this was significant to him.
"That's when Yuji was conceived," he adds, almost as an afterthought, but the way his voice softens tells me it's anything but.
The mystery of how I'd evolved from a woman wary of Inha's charms to one who sought his presence make sme intensely curious. It's like I'm a stranger to myself, learning about a person I've never met but am supposed to be. It's such a huge chunk of my life missing.
Inha must notice my distant gaze because he shifts closer, enough that I can feel the heat of his body. It catches my attention, pulling me back from my spiraling thoughts.
"Hey," he says softly, "you okay?"
I nod, offering him a shaky smile. "Yeah, just… it's a lot to take in."
"I can only imagine," he acknowledges with a gentle empathy.
Inha stands, offering me his own to pull me to my feet. "How about I show you around? A change of scenery might do you some good."
His hand reaches out, an innocent invitation. As my fingers slip into his warm grip, a jolt of electricity sparks through me. It's like a key turning in a long-locked door, and for a split second, the past floods into the present.
The room shifts. I'm there, but not as I am now—a version of me filled with a lightness I've never known in this current life. Laughter bubbles from my lips, the sound richer and more carefree than any I've managed today. Inha's hands are on my waist, guiding me in a slow dance across this very room. The lights are dimmed to a soft glow, and outside the night sky is ablaze with stars.
We're alone—just Inha and me—and the world outside this dance doesn't exist. My head rests against his chest, and I can feel the steady beat of his heart through the fabric of his shirt. The love in my eyes reflects in his, an echo of devotion that resonates through time.
The vision vanishes as quickly as it came, leaving me standing there with Inha's hand in mine, the present wrapping around me once more. But the warmth from the memory lingers, burning bright inside.
The room spins back into focus, the plush carpet beneath my feet grounding me in the here and now. I blink away the disorientation, only to find a deep ache blossoming in my chest, a phantom pain. My eyes start to water, the emotion from that past moment washing over me.
Inha's hand tightens around mine, his thumb brushing against my skin in a comforting rhythm. He watches me with concern etched into his handsome features, his brow furrowed as if he's trying to piece together what just happened from whatever is written my face.
"Yena?" His voice is soft but laced with worry. "What is it?"
I swallow hard, trying to anchor myself to the present, but the pull of that memory—the laughter, the closeness, the love—is potent. "I… I remembered us," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Dancing right here in this room."
Inha's eyes widen slightly with surprise before they soften, a mix of understanding and something else—longing?—flickering within their depths. "You remembered," he repeats, not a question but a quiet acknowledgment.
A shadow crosses Inha's face, a crease forming between his brows. He steps back, a subtle shift that opens a chasm of space between us. I'm left standing, hand half-raised, the warmth of his touch evaporating like morning mist under the sun.
"I'm sorry," he says, his voice laced with an emotion I can't quite place—regret, perhaps? "I shouldn't have touched you yet. Not so soon after… everything."
His apology hangs in the air, the unspoken words as clear as if he'd shouted them. It's too soon, too much. But something in his gaze betrays him—it's not just about what's right or wrong; it's about what feels natural to him.
"It's instinctual," he admits, and there's a vulnerability in his confession that pulls at me. "To reach for you, to be close to you."
His eyes lock with mine, and I see the battle waging behind them—the struggle between desire and duty, between the pull of what was and the respect for what is now.
I take a deep breath, feeling a mix of disappointment and understanding settle over me. This man—my husband—is trying to do right by me in a situation neither of us was prepared for. His internal conflict is clear in the rigid set of his shoulders and the way he clenches his jaw.
"I get it," I say softly, my own voice betraying a hint of the confusion that swirls within me. "This is all new for me too. We'll figure it out together."
Inha nods, but there's still a tightness around his eyes that doesn't quite fade. He takes another step back, putting more distance between us as if by widening the physical gap he might also be able to manage the emotional one.
We stand there for a moment, two people caught in an orbit we no longer understand. The silence stretches out until it's almost tangible—a buffer against the complexity of our situation.
The room feels suddenly too big, unspoken words and tension stretching between Inha and me. His step back, that guarded look—it all shows me that we had something there and it isn't now. It's clear, the dance of memories that slipped into my mind, the laughter and closeness that I felt in his arms—those weren't just fleeting moments. They were snapshots of a life I lived everyday.
As I stand there, a strange realization dawns on me. The distance I felt with Yul, the cautious hesitance in his eyes—it's absent here with Inha. Whatever chasm had opened between Yul and me wasn't mirrored in my relationship with Inha. It seems that no matter what had been happening in my life to push me towards that drastic decision to forget, it hadn't affected the bond I shared with Inha in the same way.
Inha's concern is palpable, his movements careful and measured as if he's afraid to pull too hard on whatever fragile thread is holding me together. But despite his caution, there's an undercurrent of something more—a special bond between us that I don't have the context for anymore.
I remember his confession from moments ago, how he fell for me before we even met, and how I gradually let him in despite my initial reservations. It felt like stories borrowed from someone else's life, but standing here now, the echo of those emotions is still there, aching behind my ribs.
He's looking at me now with a mix of respect and something else—affection? It's hard to tell when I'm still piecing together my own thoughts. But one thing is certain: we were much more than just names matched in a lottery.
Inha clears his throat gently, breaking the silence that has settled over us. "Would you like to see the rest of the apartment?" he asks, gesturing towards a hallway that branches off from the living room.
I nod, grateful for the distraction and curious about what else I might discover about my life here with him. As we walk side by side but not touching, there's an odd sense of déjà vu that washes over me—like I've seen all this before.
He leads me down the hallway and begins pointing out various rooms: the kitchen with its state-of-the-art appliances where we apparently enjoyed cooking together; the kids' rooms filled with toys and colorful artwork; our bedroom—a space that surely holds more memories than any other.
As Inha opens the door to our bedroom, a surge of recognition floods through me—the scent of jasmine from a diffuser on the dresser, the softness of the carpet beneath my feet, and the sight of a bed that whispers secrets of nights spent wrapped in each other's arms. The intimacy of it all wraps around me like a warm embrace—an embrace I have no idea what to do with.
The tour of the apartment ends with us standing in the doorway of the bedroom, this painfully private place. Inha watches me carefully, reading my expression as I take it in.
"You might be tired," he suggests gently. "It's been a long day, and you've had a lot to process."
I nod, feeling a weariness that's bone-deep. It's not just physical exhaustion but an emotional one, like I've run a marathon with my heart.
"Where should I sleep?" The question slips out before I can think better of it. I know there are guest rooms, but the idea of retreating to one feels strange, almost like admitting defeat.
Inha raises an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face. "In our bed, of course."
I hesitate at the threshold, uncertainty gnawing at me. The bed looks inviting with its plush duvet and pillows that seem to promise comfort. But it's also Inha's bed—our bed—and the intimacy of it feels too much.
He seems to sense my hesitation because he steps forward, his voice soothing. "I promise you, Yena," he says earnestly, "I'll control myself. I won't push for any intimacy until you're much more comfortable with me." His smile is warm and reassuring. "I just want you back in our bed. That's all."
There's a sincerity in his eyes that makes me believe him without question. It eases some of the tension from my shoulders and coaxes a small smile onto my lips.
"Okay," I reply softly, the decision feeling right despite the whirlwind of emotions still churning inside me. "Thank you, Inha."
His smile widens at my agreement, and he steps aside to let me enter the room first.
As I move past him into the room, Inha remains by the door, giving me space yet still present—a quiet support.
Inha gives me space as I prepare for bed, the silence between us filled with understanding. Slipping beneath the sheets, the soft fabric against my skin is like the touch of an old friend. The room is dark, save for the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains.
Inha joins me after a few moments, his presence immediately felt as he settles into his side of the bed. True to his word, he doesn't push for more, but after a few heartbeats of stillness, he rolls onto his side and gently wraps his arms around me. The contact is cautious yet deliberate.
Surprise flutters in my chest at his touch, but it's quickly chased away by an unexpected sense of peace. His arms are strong and secure; their embrace feels like a missing part clicking into place. My body relaxes instinctively against him, tension seeping out of me in waves.
There's no urgency in his hold, no demand for something I'm not ready to give. Instead, there's a comforting steadiness that seems to say he's here for me—just here—and nothing more. His breath is warm on the back of my neck, a quiet reminder that I'm not alone.
I let out a slow exhale, surprised at how natural this feels. After everything that's happened—this unfamiliar life that's supposed to be mine—there's an undeniable rightness in being held by Inha. It's as if my body remembers what my mind cannot.
The steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my back becomes a lullaby of sorts, coaxing me toward sleep with its promise of safety and belonging. For all the uncertainty still swirling within me, this moment of tranquility feels like relief.
And so I stay there enveloped in Inha's arms, allowing myself this small bit of odd intimacy amidst the chaos. It doesn't answer any questions or heal any wounds—not yet—but for now, it offers a peaceful respite as I drift toward sleep.