A bunch of snippets that don't fit in the main narrative, so I stuck them here for anyone who's interested. There will also be a sequel...eventually.

I

Her arm slides against his, bare skin brushing against the starched white shirt, and it shouldn't be anything – shouldn't mean anything – but it does. Because he turns to look at her, dark eyes blown out and drunkenly focused on her like she's the only girl who matters.

It turns ual pathetically quickly, because when he touches her face, her lower lip – gleaming ruby red and oh-so-kissable – she tilts her head up. She could say it's the alcohol, she could claim it's all a rebound fling – but drunk and uninhibited as she is, she knows it's not.

So when their lips touch, she knows the heat running through her is more repressed lust than just a spur of the moment thing. She's always known that he's attractive – how could she not? – but, for some reason, she's always convinced herself that he's off-limits.

And now, sliding into his lap and rolling her hips against his experimentally, she thinks it's all a crock of .

They're kissing desperately, her body pressed against his as close as can be, mouth against his and his hands on her . He's feeling her up like a teenager, and they roll over, falling against the seats of the limo.

She ends up on her back, looking up at him, lips red and swollen, and she's laughing. “Kiss me,” she orders, drunk on her own recklessness, heedless of all the guilt she'll feel in the morning, the way she will suppress any memory of this loss of control. Tonight, all she wants is him.

He seems just as much of a slave to his body as she is. “Of course,” he grins, and then is on top of her, his weight hot and heavy and she likes it, likes the feel of a man she desires against her. She barely notices the movement of the limo, even as they tumble onto the floor of the car, her skirt hiked up against her thighs and frantically tugging at the buttons of his shirt.

But she is clumsy, her coordination impaired by drink, and when they move against each other, rolling, grinding, clutching at one another, the buttons break and all too soon her hands are against the skin of his chest. He's in good condition, the saner, sober part of her mind registers, but the part that has let all self-control fly out into the wind tells her she should those abs.

There's no time, however, because the urgency building up in the pit of her stomach, in her groin – and the heavy, pulsing heat of the bulge in his crotch remind her that is all well and good, but the main course is what she really wants.

She's always been like that. She's a great lover of , but it's never enough. They break apart, breathing heavily, and Siwon stumbles forward on his knees towards the partition glass that separates them from Jinki, the driver. She should be embarrassed, but all she's doing is wrapping her arms around Siwon and kissing any part of him she can find.

“Jinki, condoms,” he manages, before slamming the plastic window shut and reaching for her. She's already ping his jeans, pushing them down and she should be embarrassed at how insatiable they are, she doesn't care.

“God,” he mumbles against her neck, as she fumbles with his underwear, insistent hands wrapping around him, “oh, god, I want you.”

Her s, strapped in and pushed up, are pressed against his chest, her hand clutching his , and though she looks like a cheap , she knows she wants him too, wants him like she's never wanted a man before.

The realisation is less startling than she expects.

II

He regrets leaving almost as soon as he sets foot outside the hospital, but there is no way he can go back. It would be too much of his pride – his dignity – lost, if he were to sprint back and beg Hyerin to forgive him like he always does.

She doesn't even know how much control she has over him. Oh, she has an inkling, and she uses it, sometimes, he's well aware, but that is only a tiny part of the huge need he has for her. He doesn't understand how it came to this. He doesn't understand how the hell they were able to ignore this for so long, and he doesn't understand just why it had to up like this.

It's not as if they could have foreseen the baby – the baby who is not his, as she so kindly pointed out. But they probably could have done a better job of working it out, instead of having intense and avoiding the problem.

He kicks an offending shoe out of the way, crashing into his sofa with his head in his hands, and even though he tries desperately not to cry, he can feel the tears threatening. He loves her – oh god, he loves her – and now he can't see how they can fix this.

He was so stupid. He was honestly beginning to hope that things were working out, that things were just slotting into place without them doing anything. He should have known things could never be that easy, that Hyerin herself could never be that easy. He's known her for all her life, practically. He knows her.

And yet, he still loves her, still adores her in a way he never thought was actually possible. He's always been a romantic, yes, but it was tempered with the knowledge that love like this is highly unlikely for someone like him. But somehow – without even meaning to – he's done it, held everything he ever wanted in his hands and then watched it drift away like so much sand.

He's held the woman he loves in his arms and known she loved him back, and now he's ed it up because he had to get too close, too into it. He knows some of the accusations she threw in his face have a ring of truth about them. Perhaps he was expecting too much of her, maybe he did think it would all slot into place and she would be the perfect wife and mother he's grown up to think he needed.

But that was the wrong thing to think, and now, home alone and away from the heat of it all, he can see that he doesn't want that at all. He wants the relationship they've always had, familiar and teasing and y. He wants her as she is, dry and caustic and restrained, wants her to be a mother in her own way.

And he wants her little baby boy, this tiny little being who should have been his, but by some hideous accident of nature turned out to belong to a man who doesn't care. He thinks of him as his, knows he could be his father if Hyerin wanted him to be.

If Hyerin allowed him to be.

The thought triggers the tears blocking his throat, and alone and more than a little brokenhearted, he cries himself hoarse.

III

It is a testament to how much has changed in such a short amount of time that the pictures of Heejin's wedding appear a month later in some magazine she's never heard of. It obviously has highbrow aspirations, and she picks it up inside the NICU where someone has clearly left it. With one hand resting on Jinhwan's belly to reassure him she's still there, she flips through it until she gets to the article itself.

There is a brief interview with one of the numerous (less important) guests, and a quote from Heejin herself – obviously garnered from a harassing phone call to her PA while she was on honeymoon – and a flood of pictures. Most of them are shots of the reception, but a couple are of the ceremony, and she wonders how the hell they managed to get them. Obviously an intern blew the right photographer.

And there she is, standing nervously behind a beaming Heejin, heavily pregnant and in disgrace. The caption makes much of the fact that Heejin actually deigned to allow her any part in the celebrations: The infamous Song Hyerin made a rare appearance as a bridesmaid in couture adapted by long-time friend and designer Zhou Mi – a brave choice on both counts for the bride!

She clicks her tongue. “Hear that baby?” She tells Jinhwan, rubbing his little belly gently. “Mummy's infamous. Well,” she considers, “I guess you are too, by extension.”

He burbles happily in response. “Did you enjoy making my life hell, huh?” She coos at him, smiling. She blows him a kiss. “I bet you did.”

Rolling her eyes at her own stupidity, she turns back to the magazine, staring at the photo. She bites her lip. Her first, instinctive thought is god, you look awful.

She forces it away, and looks again. Actually, she thinks, you don't look so bad. She's far from looking amazing, but with the mixed blessing of hindsight, she can see she looks...not happy, but like she wants to be there.

The dress isn't bad, either.

“Remind me to thank Zhou Mi for that dress,” she tells Jinhwan.

IV

“He's not going to on me, right?” Jongdae says apprehensively, looking into the incubator with more than a little unease.

“Jongdae!” Narae groans. “Can you please not swear around an entire room of babies?”

He shrugs, grinning cheekily. “Aw, come on, noona. They're not going to remember it.”

She gives him an exasperated look, and Hyerin hides an amused smile. “You are impossible,” she mutters, a familiar mantra around Jongdae.

“Oh, I know,” he assures her, “I'm fairly sure it's my middle name.”

Narae snorts unwillingly. “You don't have a middle name,” she reminds him, “none of us do.”

Her infuriating little brother just smiles winsomely. Hyerin sees this as her chance to stop the argument in its tracks. “No, he won't, Jongdae,” she tells him. “He's wearing a nappy. You know, those handy things babies wear that keep the crap from getting everywhere?”

Narae gives her a wounded look at the word crap, but she pretends not to see it. Jongdae sighs, as if this is a massive undertaking, and holds his arms out like a scarecrow. She snickers.

“Alright,” he says, “I'm ready.”

She tries to keep a straight face. “Uh-huh. Might want to adjust your arms, though,” she keeps her tone deadpan. “Because I will kill you if you drop my baby.”

Jongdae gulps.

V

“Hmm,” she taps her chin, considering the design in front of her. “Maybe we could go for something a little less tacky?” She says pointedly, raising an eyebrow. “He's a baby. No need for every Disney character going.”

“Of course,” the interior designer nods, snapping her fingers for one of her numerous lackeys. “Shinwoo, do we have another design?”

The young man skips forward hastily, his sleek hair bobbing as he does so. “Yes, yes we do. Um, I believe we have the, uh,” he flips through his leather portfolio quickly, “ah, yes! We have the woodland theme, which I believe was part of the shortlist.”

His boss gives him a sharp look, not impressed with his lack of adjectives. Hyerin finds it a little refreshing. At least she understands the theme, if he just says woodland. “Yes,” the designer sniffs, taking the plan delicately. “This one is not quite finished, but – ”

Hyerin takes the piece of paper from her. “I like this one,” she announces, lips curving into her first real smile in weeks. 

It's far simpler than the busy drawing she was given just a moment ago, but the preliminary sketches for the wall paintings are delicate, enchanting. She wants her son to feel safe and comfortable, not traumatised by the inane grins of irritating Disney characters. “This is much better,” she nods approvingly.

Shinwoo – sensing an opportunity to push what is quite clearly his design – nods enthusiastically. “We can turn the tree sculpture into storage, if you look here,” he tells her, stabbing excitedly at the paper. “And I've already sourced a lovely place in Dongdaemun that will put the crib together.”

She gives him a wry smile. “This is your favourite, then?” She asks him.

He looks down, abashed. “Yes,” he mumbles, suddenly all too aware of how forward he is being. His boss looks on in satisfaction, ready to interject.

But Hyerin – once again – gets there first. “Well, good,” she says slowly, casting a glance at the designer next to her. “I'll put you in charge, then.” She states casually, and walks away, ignoring the indignant squawk from the woman she originally hired. “I want nothing but the best for my son.”

Shinwoo's shy, delighted grin is all the confirmation she needs to know she's done the right thing.

VI

“He'll be fine, Hyerin,” Siwon reassures her – for the fifty-seventh time this hour – eyes crinkling up in the corners in amusement. “He's got the best car seat money can buy, and Jinki promised to go slow.”

She nods, but still refuses to relinquish her deathgrip on the handle. Instead, she looks down at her baby, who is staring up at them curiously. “It's your first car ride, Jinhwan,” she tells him, with an exaggerated gasp, “are you excited?”

He blows a tiny spit bubble in response. She sighs. They're really going to have to work on more appropriate replies when he gets a little older.

Siwon gently – but forcefully – removes the car seat from her grip, taking a hold of her shaking hand as he does so. “It will be okay,” he says soothingly. “He's safe.”

She nods, wrapping her arms around herself as he ducks into the limo and starts buckling the baby in. Jinhwan watches his father with dazed interest, still drooling, and she bites her lip nervously. “Tighter than that, Siwon!” She admonishes, working her fear out the only way she knows how. “What if he falls?”

Siwon sighs, but does as she says, knowing that she needs to feel like everything is perfect. She may have spent months preparing for this moment, but it's still not enough – it's the first time they're taking their baby home, after all.

Home for good. It feels right. 

VII

The paparazzi swarm like locusts as she leaves the apartment, her son secured in his pram. The noise and flashing lights are too much for her tiny baby, still fragile and more delicate than most newborns, and he begins to squirm in earnest.

His sharp, fearful cries tug at her heart, and the familiar anger kindles in her gut. She bends over the pram, ignoring the shouts from the paparazzi about the state of her and Siwon's relationship, and picks him up, wondering if and when they will ever get an uninterrupted outing.

He screws up his tiny face, his fists clenching against her shoulder, and she rocks him, patting his back gently. “Oh, baby,” she croons, “oh, Jinhwan, baby,” she warbles nonsense into his ears, glaring at the paparazzi all the while.

One arm cradling the baby, she determinedly pushes through the crowd with the pram, taking vindictive pleasure in the groans of pain. “ off,” she says simply, uncaring of their reactions. “You're scaring my son.”

One of them sniggers, and she pins him with a cool stare. “What is wrong with you people?” She sneers as she steps into the lift. As the doors close on them, she shakes her head. “Don't you have anything better to do?” She asks pityingly.

Blissful silence follows her statement, and – breathing a sigh of relief – she kisses her son's downy hair.

“One day,” she tells him sadly, “one day we'll avoid them.”