Gravity

1994 | Gunsan

The first thing she became aware of was warmth. A solid, living warmth against her chest, her belly, the entire length of her body. Then came the scent—sun-dried cotton, sleep, and the faint, clean smell of his skin. Memory reassembled itself not as a thought, but as a sensation: her right arm was slung over his side, her hand splayed flat against the soft flannel of his pajama shirt, directly over his heart. His back was a firm wall against her front, her rounded belly tucked perfectly into the dip of his spine. They were two nested curves.

Jisoo kept her eyes closed. The pre-dawn darkness had softened into a muted, greyish light that seeped around the edges of the floral curtains. It was morning. The same morning. She had not swapped.

His breathing was different. Not the deep, even rhythm of sleep, but something shallower. More aware. He was awake. He had been awake. And he hadn’t moved a muscle.

She tightened her arm around him, just a fraction. The fabric of his shirt bunched under her fingers.

“You awake?” Her voice was a sleep-ravaged croak.

A beat of silence. Then, “Yeah.”

“But you’re not moving.”

“No.”

“Why?”

He shifted infinitesimally, a slight settling deeper into the mattress, into her hold. “Because it’s been a while. Like this.”

The simplicity of it was a physical blow to her sternum. He’s been waiting. Not pushing, not asking, not guilting. Just waiting for her to cross the last three inches of bed. And now that she had, he was holding perfectly still, a man savoring a rare, sweet thing, afraid any motion might break the spell.

A lump formed in her throat. She deflected, as always. “Since when are you the little spoon?”

She felt the laugh rumble through his back before she heard it, a soft, breathy sound. “Since you decided I was.” He reached back, his hand finding her thigh where it was hooked over his hip, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I’m not complaining.”

They lay there as the room lightened from charcoal to slate. The world outside began to stir—a distant scooter, the cry of a gull, the creak of Halmeoni Ok-soon’s gate next door. The baby stretched, a long, lazy roll that pressed a firm limb directly into Suho’s back.

He chuckled. “She’s awake too.”

“She’s always awake. She has her days and nights confused.”

“She gets that from you.”

“She gets that from the baby books I read that say seven-month-old fetuses are basically nocturnal party animals.”

There was a pause. She could feel him frowning. “You read baby books?”

“Your shop sells baby books.”

“We don’t sell baby books. We sell books. Some of them, theoretically, could be about babies.”

“Semantics. I borrowed one. Your Pregnancy Week by Week. It’s terrifying. Did you know she’s practicing breathing amniotic fluid right now?”

“That sounds… wet.”

“It’s all wet. It’s a water world in there. She’s basically a tiny astronaut.” Jisoo burrowed her face deeper between his shoulder blades, inhaling the familiar scent. The thought arrived, fully formed and undeniable: I could stay here forever. In any timeline. In any universe. Right here.

Eventually, the practicalities of bladders and breakfast prevailed. Extricating herself was a clumsy operation of ungainly limbs and muffled grunts. He finally turned over to help, his face soft with sleep, his hair a chaotic mess. Without his glasses, his eyes were warm and slightly unfocused, and he looked so young it made her chest ache.

“Here,” he murmured, sitting up and putting his hands under her arms, leveraging her upright with a careful, practiced strength. His hands lingered on her waist for a second after she was settled, a silent question.

She covered his hands with hers. Squeezed. “Thanks.”

His smile was a small, sunlit thing.

The morning in the shop unfolded with a new, profound ease. It wasn’t the careful, diplomatic ease of two people managing a fragile peace. This was the genuine, unthinking ease of two people who had held each other through the dark and woken up still holding on.

Suho hummed while he wiped down the front display window—a tune she didn’t recognize, perpetually off-key. Jisoo sat on her stool behind the counter, updating the subscription ledger. Two families were now fully enrolled, their first custom boxes delivered last week. Three more had expressed interest after seeing the meticulously wrapped packages in their neighbors’ hands.

The wind chime on the door tinkled. A woman in her forties, dressed in practical slacks and a neat blouse, entered. She carried a leather satchel and moved with the purposeful air of someone on a mission. Jisoo’s CEO brain, always running a silent background diagnostic, immediately categorized her: Professional. Educator. Likely here for supplies, not leisure.

The woman browsed the school supply section, running her fingers over packs of pencils, testing the sharpness of a display scissor, making notes on a small, spiral-bound pad.

Suho caught Jisoo’s eye from across the shop where he was restocking binders. He raised his eyebrows slightly. Your territory, his look said.

After ten minutes of systematic perusal, the woman approached the counter. “Good morning. Are you the owner?”

“My husband is,” Jisoo said, gesturing to Suho, who gave a friendly nod from the shelves. “But I can help you.”

“I’m Park Eunji. I teach third grade at the elementary school down the road.” She placed her notepad on the counter. “We’re putting together our supply list for next semester. We usually order from the big chain store in the next town, but the last batch of notebooks had half the pages falling out, and the pencil leads kept breaking. The parents are complaining.”

Jisoo nodded, her mind already clicking through options. Volume discounts. Bulk pricing tiers. Delivery schedules. Contract terms. The language of 2026 deals hovered on her tongue.

But this wasn’t a boardroom. This was a small shop in a coastal town in 1994. This was community.

“We can absolutely handle a bulk order,” Jisoo said, her voice shifting into what Seri called her “reassuring negotiator” tone—warm, competent, open. “What exactly do you need?”

For the next fifteen minutes, they discussed quantities: thirty-five standard composition notebooks, seventy number-two pencils, thirty-five erasers, fifteen packs of colored pencils for art time, thirty rulers. Jisoo wrote it all down in the shop’s large order book, her handwriting neat and clear.

“For a local school,” she said, thinking aloud, “we can offer a ten percent discount on the total.” She looked up at Teacher Park. “And if you’d like, we could include a small welcome gift for each student—a handwritten bookmark with the shop’s name. Something personal to start their year.”

Teacher Park’s face, which had been set in lines of mild stress, softened into genuine delight. “A discount and bookmarks? That’s… that’s wonderfully kind. The chain store just gives us an invoice.”

“We’re not a chain store,” Jisoo said simply. “We’re your neighbors.”

The teacher signed the order form on the spot, agreeing to pick up the supplies the week before the new semester. It wasn’t a massive, company-saving contract. But it was steady, reliable income. A relationship.

After the wind chime signaled her departure, Suho wandered over to the counter. He leaned against it, looking at the order form with a faint, bemused smile. “Ten percent discount and handmade bookmarks? That’s some aggressive neighborliness.”

“It’s called ‘building brand loyalty and ensuring repeat business,’” Jisoo said, tapping the order book with her pen.

“It’s called ‘being nice.’”

“It can be both. The bookmarks are marketing. The discount is being nice.”

He shook his head, his smile widening. “Where did you learn to do that? It was like watching a master negotiator, but for pencils.”