When she comes home that night, her mind still on Siwon's mouth against hers and keenly feeling the loss of her baby, she is assaulted by Jongdae, who throws himself at her as soon as she steps over the threshold.

“Noona!” He cries, holding her by the shoulders. She blinks at him, confused. She hasn't seen him for several days, and if the stubble on his chin and what Narae's been muttering about darkly is true, he's been with that boy. “I only just heard – I'm so sorry!” He looks genuinely upset, and she pats him awkwardly.

“Jongdae, it's fine,” she tells him, now intensely curious as to where he's been if he didn't know until now – it's been all over the tabloids, for Christ's sakes. “Everything's...okay.”

It's not, not really, but she can hardly tell him everything in her life feels like it's falling to pieces, can she? “Are you alright?” He asks worriedly, looking her up and down. She wonders what he sees. A tired, wreck of a woman? Or someone who's just had a baby and isn't dealing with it very well?

“I'm fine,” she repeats, giving him a wan smile. It's funny that he asks if she is alright first, rather than the baby. The baby is what most people seem to be interested in.

“And the baby?” He bites his lip nervously. “Is he – is he doing...okay?”

At the mention of her baby, her lips spread into a smile. “He's perfect,” she informs him, scrambling for her phone so that she can show him the photo she took just this afternoon. It's probably not a good idea to take photos, but if she does give him away, she wants to have an image of him when he was still hers. “Here,” she hands him the phone, a picture of the baby asleep in his incubator filling the screen. He's wearing a new hat, one Narae found for her, and he looks utterly at peace.

The usual shock that follows at seeing how small her son is, is evident in Jongdae's eyes. “He's tiny,” he says, holding the phone closer to his eyes so that he can get a better look. “Is he – are there any...problems?” He asks awkwardly, cheeks flushing.

She takes the phone back, staring down at her son sadly. “I don't know yet,” she shrugs unhappily, “he can't breathe on his own, or stay warm, but they say that's normal for premature babies.” She shrugs again, a heavy feeling building up in her chest. “I...don't know.”

Jongdae nods. “Do you...” He starts, studying her face, “Are you getting him adopted?” He doesn't ask her as if it is a given, and she supposes that her indecision is obvious, when she has pictures of the baby on her phone and visits him all the time.

She looks down at her sleeping baby, his tiny little face obscured by the breathing tube. The familiar feeling of her heart twisting follows, and she finds that she hates the idea that her baby is not even sleeping underneath the same roof as she is anymore. “I...” She has no idea what to say – no idea if Jongdae will even understand the riotous emotions inside of her, the pros and cons of keeping or sending the baby away. “I just want the best for him,” she says, carefully tucking her phone back in her pocket.

“That makes you a good mother, then,” Jongdae says, a little bitterness lacing his tone.

She smiles, but really, she's questioning whether or not she should be called a mother at all.

***

The thought preys on her mind all night, and when she gets up, it is after only an hour's sleep. She eats without paying attention to the food, constantly checking her watch for the time and wondering just where Siwon is. Has he gone back to his parents? Is he at his apartment? Why isn't he here, they'll be late!

Narae rests a hand on her arm. “He'll be here,” she says soothingly, “he's probably just held up by traffic, or something.”

Hyerin appreciates the fact that she does not question why she is so obviously waiting for Siwon. He's not even the baby's father, and yet, it feels like he has a more intrinsic link to this child than Hyunjae ever will. He wanted this child, he felt him kick – he was there when it all went south and he had to be born, far too early.

Hyunjae hasn't even sent a message.

It's not that she wants him involved – he's made his position perfectly clear – but she cannot understand how he can be so callous. His son – even if he doesn't acknowledge him as such – is trapped in an incubator, unable even to breathe on his own, and he doesn't even care. She is used to absent, disinterested fathers – but at least her father never abandoned her completely.

“Siwon's a good guy,” Narae continues. “He knows how important this is. He wouldn't just leave you hanging.”

She nods. Really, she could just go by herself in a Town Car, and leave Siwon out of it, but that doesn't feel right, and besides – she wants to see him.

It's stupid, especially considering that ill-advised kiss yesterday, but she can't help it. The heart wants what the heart wants, and ignoring how much she loves him is pretty much impossible.

“I know,” she says quietly, squeezing Narae's hand in silent thanks for the support. “I just get antsy.”

Narae hides a smile, but can't help slanting her a look that says you're so whipped.

She's not sure if she's whipped by the baby, or her errant husband.

***

When Siwon arrives, the reason for the delay is obvious: Heechul has come along for the ride. He greets her with a kiss on either cheek, and a loud sigh. “You didn't think you were going to keep me away from my nephew for that long, did you?”

She rolls her eyes, but secretly, she is pleased to see her big brother, and cheered by the knowledge that – though can't come, off on her honeymoon as she is – Heejin sends her love and urgent demands for photos. “You can see him,” she tells him, “but don't be too loud, okay?” Heechul gives her an innocent look, but she only narrows her eyes. “He's delicate, okay,” she warns.

“I'll be good, I promise,” Heechul holds his hands out in submission. “I would never hurt him.”

Siwon snorts at the idea of Heechul being good, but they all trundle into the car together, Narae waving them off. She'll come in the afternoon, because this is Heechul's moment with his nephew, and she doesn't want to intrude.

Heechul lets her have the front seat, and she can feel his gaze on the both of them as Siwon's hand rests on her thigh again and she chats about the baby's vital stats. They say he's doing well, but it still doesn't reassure her, and as she gets nervous, Siwon squeezes her thigh gently. “Get out of your head,” he reminds her softly, and all she can focus on is his mouth.

Only the fact that her brother is in the car with them drags her attention away from him, and when she turns around to announce that they're nearly there, Heechul is smirking at her. “You're so married,” he mouths at her, and she shakes her head, eyes widening.

He just grins.

***

Heechul is taken aback when he sets eyes on his nephew for the very first time. "He's so – so small," he says, wide-eyed.

"He's gained a little weight," she says defensively. He has. He was weighed this morning, and they told her it meant he was doing well. "He's two months premature," she adds, fingers closing over one miniature hand. The baby gives a yawn that looks entirely too big for such a small person. "He's not going to be big."

Heechul watches her as she lifts her son from his crib, head cradled in one of her hands. "Am I allowed to hold the little dude?" He asks, voice surprisingly gentle.

She turns a blinding smile on him, that inexplicable contentment she feels around her baby taking over. "Of course."

The baby is in a good mood this morning, only giving a murmur of complaint when he is handed off to the uncle he has never met. Heechul is awkward at first, elbow crooked up too high, but as she settles her son in his arms properly, he takes to it quite naturally.

He grins down at the baby, who opens his eyes in a painstakingly slow movement. "That's it, little guy," he says in satisfaction, "take me in. I'm your favourite uncle, all right? No liking Mi or Kyu or Jongdae more than me. I'll lead you astray properly."

She narrows her eyes at him, about to say something indignant about how her son is five days old, and he adds hastily "In a safe and secure manner, of course. Jeez, kid," he stage whispers, "your mum doesn't half have a glare on her."

It sounds more real coming from her big brother, almost right. The name settles in her like a mantle, and uneasily, she notes that it is beginning to feel more and more natural.

***

Heechul holds him for about fifteen minutes, before complaining that his arms hurt and that he needs coffee. Siwon offers to take him to the nearby café, warning against the black sludge that the hospital calls coffee, and she is left alone with her son.

She settles down into a chair with him, absent-mindedly wondering when he'll next want feeding. “That was your Uncle Heechul. You liked him, didn't you?” The baby snortles through his breathing tube, little face against her shoulder. She his head. “He liked you,” she tells him, and the baby doesn't respond, as if this is no surprise to him.

It is then that a truly terrible smell erupts from him, and she realises that he has managed to soil himself. One panicked look has a nurse running to her, and with one twitch of her nose, she susses out the situation.

The nurse chuckles, not unkindly. She takes the baby gently, and lays him down on a changing mat. “I think it's time mummy got to change you, huh? She's got to get used to this!”

Her eyes widen in consternation, staring down at her son's nappy in horror. “I – um, I – ” She is not prepared for this.

The nurse smiles gently. “It's easy. Not particularly pleasant, but that's life!”

She swallows. She can hardly say, oh, there's no point as I'm not going to keep him, because that would be awkward and heartless and, well –

Honestly, she's not even sure if that's true any more.

“Okay,” she straightens her back determinedly, feeling a little like she is going into battle, “I'll do it.”

The baby is tiny, the changing mat almost swallowing him whole, and gingerly, she tugs his soiled nappy apart.

A noxious smell erupts as soon as she does so, and – holding her breath – she pulls it away. A packet of wet-wipes is set next to the changing mat, and she grabs one immediately, pulling the baby's minuscule legs up so she can wipe his bottom.

It's not pleasant – quite frankly, it's disgusting – and when the baby accidentally pisses over himself, she considers walking away, but it...it makes her feel good, almost. Like she's doing something worthy, rather than just standing around at a party, waiting for someone to notice her.

When she finally straps his new nappy on (having wasted two trying to stop pee getting everywhere, and used what feels like an entire packet of wet-wipes), she feels proud. She's done something to take care of her son, instead of standing back and leaving someone she has paid to take care of it.

“I did it,” she informs the nurse, who hides a grin. Her own face splits into a delighted smile of her own. “I actually did it.”

“See,” the nurse says encouragingly, “you're getting the hang of it.”

And as she picks up her son, she smiles again, shoulders straightening. Yes, she thinks, she is getting the hang of it. She might not be a natural born mother, but she's trying, and even if she does give him away, she wants to make sure he knows that she did try.

She doesn't want to him to think that she didn't bother – that, like her own mother – she handed him off to the professionals as soon as he was born. She never intended to spend this much time with him, it's true, but now she has – well, she wants to give him everything she never had.

Oh, she had everything she needed, but she didn't have someone who really cared, and it's a cliché, but that's what she wanted. She thought that loving her child would be difficult – that her own parents' indifference was genetic – but she has discovered it's really incredibly easy. There is no effort involved; simply being near her son means all of her attention is focused on him.

She's lived a fairly selfish existence, she won't deny that. This intense need to take care of another person is a strange sensation, but not unpleasant. In fact, she rather likes it, likes knowing that she can do it – that even when she messes up, the baby will forgive her because that's what children do.

She's never been loved unconditionally, and though she knows the baby is really too small to think of anything like love, she's his mother, the person who holds him and feeds him and smells right. She is his world. And that – that is a heady, wonderful thing.

“I love you,” she whispers, feeling strangely guilty, as if she should not be saying it – as if it's some kind of illicit confession, “I really do.”

The baby does not respond, his little eyes closing as he lies against her chest, fists clutched tight, but that's okay. She doesn't need him to say it back, doesn't need her love to be reciprocated, and it is then that she realises she's really gone and done it – she's fallen in love with her baby, and there's no turning back.

She kisses the top of his head, and defiantly refuses to feel guilty about that. She's spent far too much of her life feeling like her emotions are wrong, and she's tired of it. Much like Alice, she's through the looking-glass now, and she might as well go along with it.

“It's you and me together, little one,” she tells him, not caring whether or not the nurse hears her. “We're a team.”

With a grateful smile at the nurse, she wanders back over to her chair, wishing – not for the first time – she could actually take him anywhere but this ward of thrumming machines. She crosses one leg over the other as she sits down, and though her belly pushes against her dress, she finds she doesn't really care about the excess baby weight when the cause of it all is lying in her arms.

“Do you want to stay with me?” She asks, half-whispering. She remembers a similar conversation, back when he was just a tiny, kicking presence inside of her; it almost feels like a lifetime ago. It seemed so easy, then – she didn't think she'd bond with her child, didn't know that the intense rush of love she feels for her baby would be so overpowering.

The baby doesn't respond, snuggling in close to the heat of her body. His eyes are closed, but he seems to know she's his mother even without looking at her, and she feels oddly proud of that. He hardly cries when she picks him up – and though she knows it's probably a fluke, and that if she were to take him home, he'd scream a lot more – it feels like an achievement.

"I know I said you didn't have a daddy," she whispers quietly, the baby nestling into her chest. He shifts a little, tiny hands closing into right tight little fists. It's a familiar movement, one she's taken to mean as "I'm listening, mummy."

"But, see, I'm not so sure that's true anymore, because Siwon – he really wants to be your daddy." She cradles his head. “So you could have two parents, if I let him be your dad. It wouldn't just be me. You like Siwon, don't you?”

The baby gives a fluttering little snort, as if to he's saying duh, obviously, and she begins to wonder if she should really be ascribing feelings like this to a baby who is less than a week old.

"I like him," she admits. "Actually, I love him, but you're far too young to understand that." She holds him up, so that mother and son are face-to-face. He opens one bleary eye, looking adorably sleepy. She kisses him on the nose. "No love interests until you're at least twenty-one, alright?"

The baby – who desperately needs a name – yawns. She shakes her head indulgently, and reverently, she holds him against her chest, rubbing his warm little back. She always worries he'll get cold, out of his incubator, but he never seems too unhappy.

Honestly, she has no idea what he feels – whether he likes having her around or whether she makes him feel unstable because she's not there all the time. Perhaps he prefers the nurses. They're certainly better at looking after him than she is.

If only he could tell her what he wanted, and then she wouldn't feel so guilty for admitting the truth – she wants to keep him, and cannot bear the thought of never seeing him again.

She is a possessive woman; she's always known that – and in the case of her son – she knows the thought of someone else caring for him would be too much to bear. It's enough of a trial leaving him to the nurses – though she knows he's safer here.

She doesn't want someone else to hold him when he cries, doesn't want someone else to watch him grow up. She can't take the idea that he will call someone else mummy, that he will never know that she threw away everything – even the man she loves – to give him a chance at life.

"No," she whispers, resting her cheek against his little hat-covered head, "I don't think I'm ready to give you up."