Narae finally gets her way three hours later, by which time Siwon is gone, their passive-aggressive fight pushing them apart. He'll be back, she knows - they can never stay away from each other for very long - but she dreads the next fight, the next inevitable confrontation, knowing that he can be all too persuasive when he wants to be, and she must remain strong.

They are both far too willful and far too stubborn for their own good.

Her best friend's face is drawn when she comes in, hovering in the doorway uncertainly for a moment. But when Hyerin looks up at her, she comes forward. "How are you?" She asks immediately, kneeling next to her. "You feeling okay?"

Okay is most definitely not the word for what she's feeling right now, but it will do. "I've been better," she allows.

Narae nods, looking relieved. "They wouldn't let me in," she says, the righteous anger giving way to hurt that she was not able to be there for her best friend. "They let ing Siwon in, but they wouldn't let me."

She holds an arm out for her, and when Narae's arms close around her, she whispers, "You didn't need to be there. I knew you were rooting for me," she smiles, the expression small and weak, but real nonetheless, "we're always on each other's team."

"Uh-huh," Narae smiles through her tears. "I know." She stays silent for a moment, and Hyerin can sense it's not enough. "But I should have liked to be there."

She shrugs ruefully. "It's done," she says, with firm finality. "As soon as I get him adopted, this is over, and I won't have to worry anymore."

Narae draws back and looks at her, that intense, probing look she does so well. "Are you sure?" she asks, her hands resting on Hyerin's shoulders. "You're not just saying that to avoid him, are you?" She presses.

Hyerin sighs in exasperation, wishing everyone would just believe her. "I'm sure," she says stiffly, her fingers curling into fists. "I mean it," she says, when Narae looks unconvinced.

"He's your son," she tells her, repeating Siwon's words. She closes her eyes, and wishes that they would understand that he does not quite feel like her child. He feels like a baby she has responsibility for, in a vague, distant sort of a way, and she wants to keep it like that.

If she goes to see him - if she holds him - and sees him as a real person, her heart will break, and it will soften. It will listen to Siwon and Narae when they tell her that the baby is her son, and then she will become attached.

And Song Hyerin does not give up those she loves easily.

"He's not," she whispers instead, "he's just a baby that I carried."

Narae looks at her, confused. "Isn't that the same thing?" She says hesitantly.

"No," she shakes her head, nails digging into her palms, "it's not."

***

She sleeps for the rest of the day, drifting in and out of fretful dreams where she is holding the baby and walking in empty corridors, looking for someone to hand him off to. When she wakes, her heart thudding and eyes wide, it is both a relief and a sharp pain in her chest to realise he is not here, that she has no idea where he is, and hasn't even seen him.

She rolls onto her back, and stares up at the ceiling. Her incision is beginning to ache; she suspects she is probably due a dosage of painkillers soon, and she welcomes the interruption. She doesn't want to be alone.

But when the nurse does come, it is not to give her medication. She is a few years older than Hyerin herself, her hands twisted together and a determined - if slightly nervous - look on her face. "Ms Song," she starts, hovering beside Hyerin's bed in the weak light of the morning, "how are you feeling?"

She tries to smile, but is fairly sure it is not convincing. "I'm okay," she replies, "a little achy, but fine."

The nurse doesn't take the hint. "Good. I'm glad to hear that, especially after your ordeal." She pulls out the visitor's chair, and sits down in it, Hyerin raising an eyebrow in question.

"The baby's not feeding properly," she says bluntly, and Hyerin's heart thuds painfully, "and I - we - were wondering if perhaps - perhaps you'd consider visiting him and try feeding him yourself."

"I asked not to see him," she tells the struggling nurse sharply, almost recoiling from her in her shock. No. They promised – they swore she'd never have to see him! That they'd take the best care of him and leave her out of it. She paid enough money for the right to be left alone.

"I know," the nurse grimaces, "and I really am sorry." Her voice takes on the pleading note heard from exhausted workers the world over. "But he's distraught, and he won't feed properly, so I thought if he saw you, maybe, he might calm down." She trails off, biting her lip. "His dad visits him all the time, so I thought, you know, maybe you'd change your mind." Her teeth sink into her bottom lip, as she realises her mistake.

"H-his dad?" She stutters in surprise."Who?"

The nurse smiles tentatively, confused. "You know. Gorgeous guy, tall and hot enough to be a model?"

Siwon. Of course. She sighs. Why couldn't leave well enough alone? It's not his baby, and she's not keeping him. But – she supposes – she really should at least see him once, if only to see what her months of exile produced.

Just once.

"I," she swallows, her heart beating so fast that her chest feels like a drum, "I - I - " Oh god, what does she do? There is no one here to advise her; no one to counsel her on the best course of action. It's just her, left to make a decision that she is in no fit state to make.

But in the end, there's really only one choice. The baby needs her. And she promised she would take care of him.

She nods, so scared, feels full and aching. "Okay. I - I'll come."

***

The ward is so quiet and still, it almost feels like a graveyard. The comparison makes her feel sick, but she has no time to linger on it, as the nurse gently pulls her along to one specific incubator.

Once she sees the baby inside - her baby, hers - the breath whooshes out of her in a heavy, gasping sigh. He's so small, so fragile, so underwhelmingly defenceless that she feels like the worst kind of person for leaving him to fight through this alone.

He's covered in wires and flushed - so flushed! - that he looks sick. She can feel herself drawing closer without any conscious thought, her fingers pressing against the clear walls of his home. Jerkily, he waves his arms above his head, his tiny rosebud mouth opening as he gives a weak, mewling cry.

"Oh, baby," she murmurs, her heart clenching as he screws his face up and wails as loud as he can, the sound still barely a cry, a desperate call for attention from a baby who is not really strong enough for it.

She cannot refuse him, cannot deny him the comfort when he asks so desperately for it. She turns to the nurse, and, swallowing, she holds her arms out, hands trembling. "Give him to me," she says as authoritatively as she can.

The nurse scrambles to do her bidding; that gratifies her a little, but mostly, all she can feel is overwhelming terror at the fact she is about to hold the baby she just birthed. She's not sure she's ever even held one before.

"Here," the nurse positions the minuscule baby boy in her arms. He quietens for a second, thrown by this change in positions, and as she shows her how to support his fragile neck, he opens his eyes, and stares around the room, wide-eyed. "That's it," she encourages, smiling, "just like that."

There is a moment of utter confusion – what is this thing and what is it doing in my arms – before she is able to calm down and assess the situation rationally. The nurse hovers nearby, but she ignores her and stares down at the tiny person in her arms.

He really is the smallest baby she's ever seen, and she feels the guilt overcome her like a tidal wave. He should have been bigger; he should have been healthy - he should have been safe inside of her for another couple of months, and he wasn't. She failed him.

The nurse – perhaps sensing her worry – rushes to reassure her. "He's doing great. Really packing on the pounds, so to speak."

She nods, but she's not really listening, too engrossed in discovering the baby she made. He's not really big enough to resemble anyone overmuch, and for that, she is thankful. If he looked like Hyunjae, she's fairly sure she'd start crying immediately. He just looks like every other baby - though incredibly small - red and wrinkled with wide, cloudy eyes. If she looks close enough she can almost see herself in him, but she draws back.

That's too fanciful a notion, she decides. Instead, she lifts up a tiny hand, marvelling at how perfectly formed his fingers are, his miniature nails – everything is so very, very small. The fear – still low in the pit of her stomach – is ignored as she takes in the baby in front of her.

She can be proud of him, she thinks, as she fiddles with the hospital bracelet on his arm. His date of birth, along with other vital stats are neatly typed on it, and his name – Baby Song. She grimaces.

It's not really fair. Everyone deserves a name.

She never really thought about names - she didn't think she needed to - but now he's here, with his tiny fists and insistent wail, stubbornly clinging to life because he can, she knows he needs one. This tiny little boy - this baby who kicked and shifted inside of her, who depended on her for everything - is still that little presence, still needs someone to take care of him.

She's fairly sure she's not up to the task, especially when she nearly lost him.

She is distracted from her musing, however, when the baby begins nuzzling at her . His tiny mouth opens and closes, little fists clenching, and she looks at the nurse helplessly. "What is he doing?" She asks, the fear creeping back up.

"He wants to feed," the nurse informs her, apparently unfazed by this behaviour.

"Like...feed?" She looks down at him, gut twisting uneasily. She has no idea what to do.

"It's just because he can smell the milk." The nurse puts a comforting hand on her arm. "We usually recommend feeding, especially for preterm babies, but I can make up a bottle for him if you don't want to feed. It's completely up to you."

It doesn't feel completely up to her when she has a hungry baby mouthing at the fabric of her hospital gown, and aching s just ready to feed him. It stirs up a lot of awkward emotions; she never thought she'd really be doing this. She never even thought she'd be holding him, even.

It's too big of a decision to make right now, when she's tired and hormonal, and forced to confront the cause of these feelings.

The women of her acquaintance would never dream of feeding their own children, too conscious of their figures and the general crassness of expressing milk, as if they were some common animal. It might be natural, but it's not right, they'd sniff.

But he's hungry, and uninformed and inexperienced she may be, but even she knows that feeding is recommended because it provides them with antibodies, or some other such thing. And this small, premature little boy needs all the help he can get.

She stares down at the baby in her arms. He looks so tiny, so pathetic and utterly defenceless, that she can't even bring herself to feel angry at the decision he's forcing her to make.

"I don't know how to feed," she admits quietly. It's humiliating, confessing to this lack of knowledge, but she finds it spilling out before she can control it. "I don't even really know how to hold him."

"That's alright," the nurse replies cheerfully. "Most new mothers don't." She leans over the baby in Hyerin's arms, shifting him so that she can undo the top of her gown. "I'll show you!"

Hyerin's cheeks flush with embarrassment as her is exposed, the taut already, but the nurse makes no comment, only positioning the baby's head so that he can latch on properly. "It might take a couple of tries for him to get it," she explains, standing back, "but don't worry. Just support his neck and you're fine."

She nods, and gulps, heart racing as she holds the baby – her baby – to her , and watches him rootle around for the milk he instinctively knows she can provide. It's weird – bizarre almost – and her brain is asking just what she thinks she's doing, berating her for getting involved like this, but then...

He latches on. And in some strange, visceral way she can't explain, it feels good. His tiny hand rests on top of her as he les, and she finds herself catching it and holding it in her own.

"See," the nurse laughs, and Hyerin detects a note of relief in her voice. No doubt she was worried she'd lose her job. "You're doing wonderfully."

She nods. "You can leave him with me," she dismisses the nurse, not even looking up from the ling baby in her arms. She's transfixed by the odd sight in front of her, and she wants to keep him for just a little longer.

She has that right, at least.