The Woman in the Mirror

2026 | Seoul

The return was never gentle, but some mornings it was a softer landing than others. This was not one of those mornings.

Jisoo opened her eyes to a ceiling of smooth, unblemished white. No rabbit-shaped water stain in the corner. No hairline crack that looked like a sideways ‘S’ if you squinted. Just pristine, matte paint. For three full seconds—a count she could feel in the sluggish pulse at her temples—her brain floated in a formless void, trying to match the sensory input to a location. The light was wrong. It was too diffuse, too neutral, lacking the particular golden warmth that filtered through the floral-printed cotton curtains in Gunsan. The smell was wrong: the faint, clean scent of her Gangnam apartment’s air filtration system, undercut with the residual aroma of the expensive candle she’d lit last night, not the mingled smells of old wood, sea salt, and Suho’s faint, comforting odor of paper and soap.

Gangnam. 2026.

The identification clicked into place with a soft, mental thud, followed immediately by the phantom limb sensation. Her hand flew to her stomach. Flat. Hard. The defined muscle of her core, maintained through years of disciplined Pilates, lay under her palm. The great, taut curve of Dalbi was gone. The emptiness was a physical shock, a hollowing out that left her breathless for a moment, even after all these months. The ache had matured from a sharp, stabbing grief to a chronic, dull presence, a companion whose silence was more unnerving than its cries.

She lay still, listening to the profound silence of the apartment. No soft snoring from the other side of the bed. No distant, pre-dawn clatter from the kitchen as Suho tried to be quiet making tea. Just the hum of the refrigerator from two rooms away.

“Right,” she whispered to the white ceiling. Her voice was hoarse with sleep and disuse.

The process of untangling herself from the sheets felt oddly light, unencumbered. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet meeting the cool, polished concrete floor. In Gunsan, the floorboards were warm pine, worn smooth in pathways between bed and door. Here, it was sleek and cold. She padded to the bathroom, flipping the light switch on the wrong side of the door. The Gunsan bathroom switch was on the right. She corrected, a wry smile touching her lips.

She stood before the broad, illuminated mirror. Kim Jisoo, 31, stared back. The face was hers, the one she saw in music videos and magazine spreads and drama close-ups. High cheekbones, a defined jaw, eyes that could look fierce under stage lights and soft in the right interview. But she found herself leaning closer, searching. She pressed a hand to her own reflection’s cheek.

“Hey,” she said, her voice low. “You in there? Sooya-yah.”

The reflection offered no answer, just her own tired eyes, faintly puffy from the sleep she couldn’t quite remember having. The strain of the last few weeks was etching itself in subtle ways: a tighter set to her mouth, a slight shadow under her lower lash line no amount of concealer could fully erase. She looked, she thought, like a woman holding a very heavy, very precious secret.

The shower was a cascade of confusion. She reached for the shampoo bottle automatically, her mind already on the day’s schedule. Her fingers closed around the conditioner instead. She blinked, swapped them. As she rinsed, her hand shot out to adjust the temperature—reaching left, toward where the Gunsan shower’s handle was. Her hand met empty tile. The handle here was on the right. She laughed, a short, breathy sound lost in the steam.

“Muscle memory is a traitor,” she told the streaming water.

Dressing was an exercise in two worlds. She pulled on soft, high-waisted trousers and a simple silk tank, her 2026 uniform. But as she fastened her watch, her mind supplied an image of the simple, cotton hanbok-inspired dress she’d been wearing yesterday in 1994, the one with the forgiving smocked waist. She caught herself almost looking for it in the closet.

In the kitchen, Dalgom was a silent, judgmental statue on his designated stool. She prepared the Nespresso machine, the ritual mechanical and quick. As the machine whirred and spat, her gaze drifted to the kettle. A sudden, powerful craving for a cup of steaming barley tea—the kind Suho kept in a large tin, the kind that smelled of toasted grain and comfort—washed over her. She stared at the sleek electric kettle as if it had betrayed her.

“Dalgom-ah,” she sighed, taking her espresso to the island. “I almost boiled water for barley tea. In this kitchen. The cognitive dissonance is giving me whiplash.”

Dalgom blinked slowly, his expression one of profound boredom. He had heard variations of this monologue for months. His world consisted of walks, treats, and the optimal sunbeam on the living room rug. The metaphysical quandaries of his owner were not his concern.

She scrolled through her phone. Eleven emails. A text from Seri: Call sheet attached. Scene 7-B today. Kwon wants the ‘quiet magic’ he says only you bring. No pressure. A cascade of notifications from the group chat: Lisa had posted a video of her cat, Luca, attempting to jump from a bookshelf to a curtain rod and missing spectacularly. Rosé had responded with a string of crying-laughing emojis and: Luca’s commitment to gravity-defying failure is inspirational. Jennie’s last message was from two days ago, a simple heart in response to a picture of Rosé’s latest sourdough loaf. Jennie had been quiet. Jisoo knew she was in Seoul this week, between her own schedule’s commitments.

The chirping of her phone calendar alert sliced through the quiet. Car to set - 7:45 AM.

The day, in all its 2026 complexity, was waiting.

Soundstage 4 in Paju had become a second home, its vast, hangar-like interior now mapped in her mind with the intimacy of a real place. The smell of sawdust, fresh paint, and coffee was familiar. The constant, low-level murmur of crew, the snaking cables taped to the floor, the great skeletal grids of lights hanging overhead—it was its own ecosystem. Today, they were deep into Episode 7, the quiet heart of the drama.

The set was a masterpiece of nostalgic detail. The “Moonlight Stationery Shop” downstairs was all warm wood and crowded shelves. Up the narrow, built staircase was the apartment: a single room that served as living, dining, and bedroom, with a tiny kitchenette tucked into an alcove. It was humble, worn, and utterly loveable. Every item had been sourced or aged—a 1994 calendar on the wall, a rotary phone that actually worked, a yut nori board on a low table. It felt more real to Jisoo than some of the actual rooms in her life.

Today’s scene was simple. Deceptively so. Soo-jin, seven months pregnant, sits on the edge of the bed, sorting a basket of baby clothes. Seok-woo enters with a cup of tea. He watches her. He picks up a pair of socks. The dialogue was sparse, the emotion vast.

“We’re going for lived-in,” Kwon Hyuk said, gathering Jisoo and Hajin for a brief huddle before the first take. His hands moved as he spoke, painting the air. “This isn’t a dramatic moment. It’s the moment between dramatic moments. The laundry moment. The ‘oh god, this is actually happening’ moment. The quiet terror and wonder of it. You feel it in the silence, in the way you fold a sock. Yes?”

Hajin nodded, his face serious in a way that made him look younger. “The weight of the ordinary.”

“Exactly!” Kwon clapped him on the shoulder. “The weight of the ordinary. Ms. Kim,” he turned to Jisoo, his eyes sharp behind his glasses. “You’ve been living in this woman’s skin for months. I don’t need to give you notes. Just be her. Let the camera see her think.”

Jisoo nodded, a tightness in her throat. If only you knew how much I’ve been living in her skin.

She took her position on the bed, the prosthetic belly secured around her. It was a marvel of silicone and weighting, perfectly mimicking the heavy, low-slung curve of late pregnancy. The basket of baby clothes beside her was filled with real vintage items. A tiny flannel nightgown. A pair of knitted booties. A stack of cloth diapers. And, on top, a yellow cotton onesie with a smiling duck embroidered on the chest.

Her breath hitched. It was nearly identical to the one she’d bought for Dalbi in Gunsan, from a little shop on a sun-drenched street. The one currently folded in the top drawer of the scrap-wood dresser Suho had built.

“Places! Quiet on set!” the assistant director called.

The world shrunk to the pool of light defining the bedroom. The camera operator crouched on a dolly, lens focused on her hands. “Sound speeding.” “Marker.” “Action.”

Jisoo’s hands—Soo-jin’s hands—began to move. She picked up the duck onesie. She didn’t act. She remembered. The feel of the soft cotton between her fingers reminded her the onesie that Sooya bought for Dalbi. The sudden, overwhelming wave of love that had made her eyes prickle. She unfolded it, her thumbs smoothing over the tiny sleeves. She folded it again, with a meticulous care that came from having done this a dozen times in another life. The camera drank in the minute tremor in her fingers, the way her gaze softened, went distant, seeing not the set but a nursery with white walls and a yellow blanket.

From off-camera, the sound of a door opening, footsteps on the wooden floor. Hajin entered as Seok-woo, holding two cups of jasmine tea—a detail Jisoo had suggested in a script meeting, because Suho always brought her tea when she was lost in thought. He set one cup on the nightstand. He stood for a moment, watching her. His expression was a beautiful canvas of awe and quiet fear.

He reached into the basket and picked up a pair of white socks, so small they disappeared in his palm. He held them up, his brow furrowed in something like disbelief.

“These can’t be real,” he said, his voice hushed, full of wonder. “Nothing this small is real.”

The line, so simple, so perfect, lanced through Jisoo. It was exactly something Suho would say. The exact tone—wondering, slightly terrified, utterly smitten. Hajin had found Seok-woo’s soul, and it unnerved her how much it mirrored the man she loved in another time.

She looked up at him, her eyes finding the lens that was now his face. Her voice, when it came, was steady but layered with a truth only she knew. “They are. She’s coming.”

He sat on the bed beside her, the mattress dipping. He didn’t touch the prosthetic, but placed his hand gently over it, his gaze on the tiny socks in his other hand. The silence stretched, thick and potent. He swallowed.

“I’m scared,” he whispered, the confession dragged from him.

Her reply was immediate, a shared truth. “Me too.”

They looked at each other. Then, almost imperceptibly, they both breathed in. Their lines overlapped, soft but certain.

“But we’re ready.”

“Cut! Print it!”

The silence on the set held for a beat longer than usual. Then a collective exhale. A few crew members sniffed, hastily wiping at their eyes. The scene’s power wasn’t in its words, but in the cavernous, tender space between them.

Kwon Hyuk didn’t move from his monitor for a long moment. Then he stood and walked over to them. He didn’t look at Hajin. He stopped in front of Jisoo.

“Ms. Kim,” he said, his voice unusually gravelly. He seemed to search for words, then abandoned the effort. He just gave a slow, deep nod. “Thank you.”

He walked away, leaving her standing in the glare of the lights, feeling utterly exposed and completely seen, all at once.

Between setups, she retreated to her dressing room. It was a small, utilitarian space, but she’d made it hers: a cashmere throw over the chair, a few photos tucked into the frame of the mirror—one with her sister, one with the members from years ago, all laughing. She sank into the chair, the weight of the prosthetic suddenly immense. She didn’t take it off. It felt like a shield, a connection.

She pulled her journal from her bag. She didn’t write. Instead, she took out a pencil and began to sketch. Her hand moved automatically, with a confidence born of endless repetition. The line of a jaw. The mess of black hair that never quite lay flat. The curve of wire-frame glasses. The small, familiar scar on the left eyebrow. She shaded in the warm brown eyes, trying to capture the particular way they crinkled at the corners when he was trying not to laugh at his own bad joke.

She whispered to the sketch, her voice barely a breath in the quiet room. “I’m trying. I’m really trying.”

There was a sharp, perfunctory knock on the door, and it opened before she could answer.

“Surprise, Unnie.”

Jennie stood in the doorway, backlit by the fluorescent hall lights. She was in what Jisoo privately called her ‘incognito-heiress’ outfit: impeccably tailored black sweatpants, a stark white oversized tee that probably cost as much as a small appliance, a slouchy Chanel bucket hat, and large sunglasses perched on her head. In her hands were two distinct takeout bags from their favorite Japanese restaurant, the one near their old practice studio that had been their celebration-and-commiseration spot for over a decade.

“Jennie? What are you doing here?” Jisoo quickly closed the journal, setting the pencil aside.

“What does it look like? I’m kidnapping you for lunch. Seri said you wrap early. I have a three-hour window before my next fitting.” She breezed in, kicking the door shut with her heel. She set the bags on the counter with a thump and began unpacking with the efficient, proprietary air of someone completely at home. “You haven’t texted in the group chat for two days. Lisa is convinced you’ve entered a silent meditation retreat without telling us. Rosé thinks you’re secretly dating someone intensely mysterious. I decided to cut through the speculation with salmon don.”

She produced two lacquered wooden bowls, containers of rice, miso soup, and extra ginger. She pushed a bowl of chirashi don towards Jisoo. “I remembered. No cucumbers, extra pickled radish.”

Jisoo felt a sudden, overwhelming surge of affection. The normalcy of it. The unthinking care. “I’m not on a retreat. And I’m not dating anyone mysterious.”

Jennie slid into the chair opposite, pulling off her hat and shaking out her hair. She leveled a look at Jisoo as she picked up her chopsticks. “Hmm.”

“Stop ‘hmm’-ing.”

“I didn’t say anything.” Jennie took a bite of salmon, her expression one of pure innocence. “So, how’s filming? Seri says it’s a masterpiece. She’s already using the word ‘awards’ in sentences, which is terrifying.”

They fell into the easy, meandering rhythm of a thousand such lunches. They talked about Lisa’s ongoing saga with Luca the daredevil cat. Rosé’s descent into what Jennie termed “sourdough madness”—she was now maintaining seven different starters, each with a name and personality. They dissected a new director Jennie was thinking of working with, debated the merits of a recently opened restaurant in Cheongdam. It was gossip, shop talk, silly updates. It was a lifeline.

For the first time in weeks, Jisoo’s shoulders began to unhunch. The constant, low-grade hum of anxiety—the mental checklist for two lives, the fear of a misstep, the weight of the unspoken—receded into the background. Here, with Jennie, she was just Jisoo. Not a CEO, not a wife in another time, not a mother-to-be in a parallel world. Just a woman eating lunch with her best friend.

Halfway through the meal, Jennie frowned and started patting the pockets of her sweatpants. “Ah, shit. I forgot my lip balm. My lips are a desert.”

“Mine’s in my purse,” Jisoo said, nodding toward her tote bag on the counter.

“You’re a saint.” Jennie pushed back her chair and reached for the bag without a second thought. This was their law. Purses were communal territory. Lip balms, hair ties, emergency snacks, tampons—all were fair game, a system established in dorm rooms and reinforced over thirteen years of shared life.

She unzipped the main compartment, rummaging. “Where’s the sacred inner pocket?”

“Zippered one on the left.”

Jennie found the zipper, pulled it open, and slid her hand in. Her fingers brushed past the leather wallet, the small perfume vial, the Dior lip balm… and closed around something soft. Cotton. Small.

Her searching motion stopped.

Jisoo, watching from her seat, felt the world slow down. She saw the minute change in Jennie’s posture—the slight stiffening of her spine, the way her head tilted just a fraction. It was a pause so brief anyone else would have missed it. Jisoo didn’t.

Slowly, Jennie withdrew her hand. She wasn’t holding the lip balm.

Cradled in her palm were two impossibly small, pristine white socks. Silver crescent moons were embroidered on the soles, the thread catching the light. They were folded together, a tiny, soft bundle. Newborn-sized.

Jennie looked at the socks. She didn’t gasp. She didn’t jerk her hand back. She just stared at them, her face unreadable. Then, with a deliberation that felt louder than a shout, she lifted her gaze to Jisoo.

Her expression wasn’t one of shock or accusation. It was deeper, sadder. It was the look of someone who has just had a whispered suspicion confirmed in the starkest possible terms. She didn’t ask, “Whose are these?” The answer was obvious. She didn’t ask, “Why do you have these?” She knew the answer would be complicated.

She just held them in her open palm, a silent, devastating question.

The hum of the soundstage outside vanished. The dressing room walls seemed to press inward. The half-eaten chirashi sat between them, forgotten.

Jisoo’s mouth was dry. The lie—they’re props, for the drama, for character immersion—rose to her lips, polished and ready. It was a good lie. A professional lie. It would work on anyone. On Seri, on Kwon, on Hajin.

But this was Jennie. Jennie, who had shared a microphone with her when they were trainees, who had held her hair back when she was sick before a showcase, who knew the exact cadence of her laugh when it was real and when it was for cameras. Jennie, whose fingers had just been in the inner zippered pocket—the pocket for passports, for love letters, for the most private of things. She knew what finding something there meant.

The lie turned to ash on Jisoo’s tongue.

“They’re not props,” she heard herself say, her voice strangely calm.

Jennie nodded once, a slow, accepting motion. “Okay.”

“I can’t…” Jisoo’s voice broke. She took a shuddering breath. “Jennie, I want to explain. I ache to explain. But it’s not… it’s not something I can say. It sounds insane. It is insane.”

Jennie placed the socks gently on the dressing table between them, as carefully as if they were made of glass. She picked up her chopsticks again, but didn’t eat. She just held them, her knuckles white.

“Okay,” she said again, her voice softer now. “Let me try something. I’m going to talk. You don’t have to say a word. You don’t have to confirm or deny anything. Just… listen. Can you do that?”

Jisoo nodded, mute. She clasped her trembling hands tightly in her lap.

Jennie set the chopsticks down with a quiet click. She folded her hands on the table, assuming the posture she used for serious conversations—back straight, gaze direct, unwavering.

“For months now,” she began, her voice measured, “you’ve been different. And I don’t mean ‘busy with a drama’ different. I mean a core-deep different. You started cooking. Actually cooking, like with recipes and ingredients. You turned down the KBS historical drama—the one Seri begged you to take—with a finality that made her drink an entire bottle of wine alone. You wrote this.” She gestured vaguely towards the soundstage beyond the walls. “You wrote a love story so specific, so real, it makes hardened camera operators cry. You disappear. Not physically, but mentally. You’ll be in a room with us, and your eyes go somewhere else, and when you come back, it’s like you’ve been on a long trip. You cried in a maternity store, Jisoo. Seri told me. She wasn’t gossiping; she was worried. You called your sister to ask detailed questions about childbirth. You bought a box of 1994 stationery from an antique market ‘for research’ but you keep it on your desk and stare at it. And now,” she said, her eyes flicking to the socks, then back to Jisoo’s face, “you’re carrying baby socks in the most private part of your purse.”

She paused, letting the inventory hang in the air. It was a damning, beautiful list. A list of love letters written in mundane actions.

“I’m not going to ask what’s happening. I’m not going to make you show me proof or tell me a story. I’m just going to say what I see. And what I see is this: you are in love with someone. Not someone here. Someone else. Someone we don’t know. And you’re carrying a baby in your heart that isn’t… here. But it’s yours. In a way that is so real it makes you buy vintage onesies and put moon socks in your purse and write lines that feel less like dialogue and more like memories you’re whispering to yourself.”

Tears were streaming down Jisoo’s face now, silent and unchecked. She made no move to wipe them away.

“And I don’t know how. I don’t need to know how. But I see you, Unnie. Okay? I see you. You are not losing your mind. You are not having a secret breakdown. You are carrying something enormous, and you’re carrying it completely alone. And I am here. And I see the weight of it. And you don’t have to give me the blueprint.”

Jisoo choked on a sob, her hand flying to her mouth. The relief was so violent it was painful. It felt like a bone being set after months of being crooked.

Jennie’s voice softened further, losing its analytical edge and becoming pure, steadfast warmth. “Whoever they are. Wherever they are. If they make you feel like this—if they make you feel real and whole and terrified and brave all at once—then that’s enough for me. The details are yours. I just need you to know you’re not alone in the carrying of it. You can be living the most impossible secret in the world, and I will still be right here, stealing your lip balm and complaining about my manager and judging Rosé’s eighth sourdough starter.”

A wet, ragged laugh burst from Jisoo. She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking.

Jennie pushed her chair back, the legs scraping softly on the floor. She moved to Jisoo’s side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her into a firm, sideways hug. She didn’t shush her. She didn’t say it would be okay. She just held her, an immovable anchor in the storm of Jisoo’s release. The chirashi sat between them, growing cold.

When the storm subsided into hiccupping breaths, Jisoo leaned her head on Jennie’s shoulder. “What if I told you?” she whispered, her voice ravaged. “The impossible thing. Would you believe me?”

Jennie was quiet for a long moment. “I would try,” she said, honest as always. “I would try with everything I have. But you don’t have to test me. You don’t owe me proof. It can stay yours. Just… please, don’t carry it like you’re the only soul on the planet who knows it exists. Even if I don’t know the shape of it, let me know there is a shape. That’s all I need.”

Jisoo nodded against her shoulder. “There’s a thing.”

“Okay.”

“It’s… universe-sized.”

“Okay.”

“I can’t tell anyone. Ever.”

“Okay.”

“His name is…” She stopped, the name—Suho—a living, breathing secret on her tongue. She exhaled, and said the only part that felt shareable. “I love him. So much it feels like a physical law.”

Jennie squeezed her. “I know.”

“You don’t. You don’t know who he is.”

“I know you. I know what your face looks like when you’re in love. I’ve never seen this version of it before. It’s quieter. Deeper. It’s in your bones. So, yeah. I know.”

That undid her all over again. Jennie held her through it, patient as a saint.

Eventually, Jennie pulled back. She used the pad of her thumb to wipe a tear from Jisoo’s cheek, a gesture so practical and sisterly it made Jisoo’s heart ache. She then picked up the moon socks from the table. She studied them, running her finger over the delicate silver embroidery.

“These are really beautiful,” she said softly.

“I know.”

“Are you going to tell me about them? Someday?”

“Someday.”

“Soon?”

“Maybe not soon. But… eventually.”

“Eventually.” Jennie nodded, as if sealing a pact. She placed the socks back into Jisoo’s open palm and closed her fingers around them. “I can wait. I’m excellent at waiting. Ask Chaeyoung how long I waited for her to admit she loved the song I wrote for her before she could say thank you without sobbing.”

“Eight months.”

“Eight and a half. Don’t underestimate my capacity for patient silence.”

Jisoo laughed, the sound clearer now, less burdened.

“And Jendeukie?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t,” Jennie said, waving a hand as she stood and went back to her chair. “Don’t be sentimental. It ruins the vibe. Now eat. This fish is too expensive to waste, and Rosé will sense it through the universe and give us a lecture about gratitude and carbon footprints.”

They ate the rest of their lunch, the conversation drifting to the mundane, the silly, the safe. The weight in the room had shifted. It hadn’t disappeared, but it had been acknowledged, and that made all the difference.

When it was time for Jennie to leave, she hugged Jisoo at the door, a tight, brief, powerful squeeze. “I’m a phone call away. For anything. Midnight. Dawn. Whatever. You know that.”

“I know.”

“And Jisoo Unnie?”

“Yeah?”

Jennie met her eyes, her gaze fierce with love. “Whatever this is… it’s lighter when someone else knows it’s heavy. Even if they don’t know what ‘it’ is. Remember that.”

She was gone, leaving behind the scent of her perfume and a quiet revolution in Jisoo’s soul.

The evening in her Gangnam apartment was deeply still. Dalgom was a warm weight across her feet on the couch. She had eaten a simple dinner, done her elaborate skincare routine, and now stood in her bathroom, once again facing the mirror.

It was the same mirror from the morning. The same face. But the woman looking back was different. The eyes, though puffy, held a clarity that had been missing for weeks. A profound quiet had settled in the set of her mouth, a peace that had nothing to do with things being solved and everything to do with being seen.

She took a deep breath and spoke aloud, her voice firm in the tiled room.

“I am Kim Jisoo. I am Lee Soo-ya.”

The words, once terrifying, now felt like a simple recitation of fact.

“I am a singer. I am an actress. I am a CEO. I am a wife. I am going to be a mother. I am thirty-one years old. I am twenty-five years old.”

She placed a hand over her heart, feeling its steady beat.

“I live in Seoul. I live in Gunsan. I love a man in 1994. I miss a dog in 2026. I am carrying a daughter who is both coming and already here. I have two lives. They are both real. They are both mine.”

Her reflection stared back, unwavering. She leaned closer.

“I am two people. I am one person. And it is okay.”

A tear escaped, tracing a warm path down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

“It is okay.”

Her voice broke on the third repetition, but it was a break of release, not sorrow.

“It is okay.”

She brushed her teeth. She drank a glass of water. She went to bed, the moon socks placed on her nightstand. She lay in the dark, looking at the smooth white ceiling, knowing exactly where she was.

The thought that came to her was not a worry, but a certainty: Tomorrow I will wake up in Gunsan. Suho will be breathing softly beside me. Dalbi will turn inside me. The shop will need opening. The sea air will smell like home. And then, another day, I will wake up here. And both are my life. And I am the woman who lives them.

The peace that filled her was the peace of surrender—not to a fate, but to a truth. It was the peace of a shared burden, even when the sharing was just a knowing look across a dressing room.

She fell asleep. The swap took her, not as a theft, but as a transition.

She woke to the sound of gentle snoring. The ceiling was familiar pine, with the rabbit-shaped stain in the corner. The light was the soft, grey-pink of pre-dawn, filtered through floral curtains. The smell was wood, salt, and him.

Suho was asleep beside her, one arm thrown over his eyes. She turned carefully onto her side, the magnificent, familiar weight of Dalbi settling with her. She placed a hand on her belly and felt a slow, rolling kick in response—a good morning.

She was home.

Both homes.