Chapter 12: The Second Scan
The chill of the ultrasound gel was a shock. Min flinched, the paper sheet crinkling loudly beneath him. Jung’s hand, which had been resting on his shoulder, squeezed once. A silent anchor.
“Sorry, it’s always cold,” the doctor said, her voice kind and detached. She moved the transducer in slow, firm circles. The room was too dark, the blue glow making Jung look like a statue carved from onyx beside the bed. His eyes were fixed on the black monitor, its blank screen a void.
Then, sound.
A frantic, rhythmic whooshing filled the sterile air, fast as a bird’s heart. The heartbeat. It was louder, more defined than the first time. Less like a secret, more like a demand.
Min’s breath caught. His own pulse hammered in his ears, trying to sync with the noise.
“Strong,” Jung said. The word was a hard, final verdict.
The doctor smiled, her eyes on the screen. “Very. Here, let me show you.” She tapped a key and the grainy, shifting image froze. She traced a white curve with the tip of a pen. “There’s the spine. Beautiful curvature. And see here?” She pointed to a cluster of smudges. “Fingers. Already formed.”
Min stared. It was abstract, a map of stars in a grey galaxy. Then his brain assembled it. A shape. A being. His—their—child. A sob welled up, sudden and violent, and he choked it back, pressing his head into the thin pillow.
Jung moved. He leaned in close, his suit jacket brushing Min’s arm. He didn’t look at Min; his entire world had narrowed to that flickering screen. Slowly, as if disarming a bomb, he raised his hand. His index finger hovered, then touched the cold glass. He traced the outline of the spine the doctor had indicated, his calloused finger following the ghostly curve.
“There,” he whispered. Not to the doctor. Not to Min. To the image. His voice was roughened, stripped of all its commanding steel. “Our child.”
Something broke open in Min’s chest. He felt it crack, a flood of tangled, terrifying warmth. He reached out blindly, his hand scrabbling across the paper sheet. Jung found it, lacing their fingers together, his grip so tight it bordered on painful. Min held on anyway, the pressure a grounding wire against the dizzying swell of emotions.
The doctor printed images, the machine whirring and spitting out squares of tangible proof. She wiped the gel from Min’s belly, the wipe scratchy and warm. “Everything looks perfect. You’re taking good care of yourself.”
Jung helped him sit up, his hands firm under Min’s elbows. Min felt shaky, hollowed out and full to bursting simultaneously. He fumbled with his shirt, his fingers clumsy. Jung batted them away and did it himself, buttoning it with a focused efficiency that felt, in that moment, like a sacrament.
Then Jung did something that stopped Min’s heart for a full beat.
He didn’t stand up. He stayed kneeling on the polished floor, heedless of his tailored trousers. He pushed Min’s shirt up again, just a little, exposing the gentle, firm swell. He looked at it, his gaze so intense Min felt seen down to his very bones. Then he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Min’s skin, just below his navel.
The kiss was dry, firm, and lasted a lifetime. Min could feel the faint scrape of Jung’s stubble, the warmth of his breath.
“Thank you,” Jung murmured against his skin, the words vibrating through Min. He didn’t clarify what for. For the child. For surviving. For being there. It was all of it.
Tentatively, Min let his fingers sink into Jung’s hair. The strands were thick, soft. He’d never initiated touch like this. Jung went very still, then let out a slow, shaky breath, his forehead resting against Min’s belly.
The peace that settled in the room was fragile, thin as the ultrasound paper. But it was real.
The drive back was quiet. Kiet, a silent presence in the driver’s seat, navigated the afternoon traffic. Jung had the printed ultrasound images on his lap, staring at them as if deciphering a code. Min watched the city blur by, his hand resting on his stomach, feeling echoes of that heartbeat.
Back in the penthouse, Jung went straight to his study, the images in hand. Min hovered near the doorway, watching. Jung cleared a space on the vast, empty desk—no computer, no files, just a monolithic piece of black wood. He smoothed one of the prints, his large hands oddly careful, and propped it against a heavy jade paperweight. He stood back, looking at it.
“The doctor said…” Min started, voice soft. “She said I should start… feeling movement soon. Maybe in a few weeks.”
Jung turned. The look on his face was unreadable, a storm held behind glass. “You’ll tell me. The first time. I want to know.”
It wasn’t a request. But it didn’t feel like an order, either. It felt like a plea.
Min nodded.
That night, after a dinner Min could barely eat, Jung worked at his desk, the soft click of his pen the only sound. Min lay on the wide sofa, a textbook open on his chest, unread. He was exhausted, wrung out by the day’s intimacy.
He must have dozed off. He awoke to the feeling of being lifted, weightless. Jung cradled him against his chest, carrying him to the bedroom. He was being handled, and his old instincts screamed—a precursor to being dropped, dismissed, hurt. He stiffened.
“Shhh,” Jung said, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “Just getting you to bed. Go back to sleep.”
He laid Min down, pulled the covers over him. Instead of leaving, he undressed and slid in beside him. He didn’t initiate sex. He just pulled Min backward, wrapping himself around him, one heavy arm draped over his waist, his broad hand splayed possessively over Min’s lower stomach.
The heat of him was everywhere. The city’s neon glow pulsed against the windows. Min could feel the steady thump of Jung’s heart against his back.
“Jung?” Min whispered into the dark.
“Hm?”
“The people… who took me. Are they…?”
The arm around him tightened almost imperceptibly. The hand on his stomach stilled.
“They’re not a problem anymore,” Jung said. His voice was quiet, final, and carried the absolute clarity of a guillotine blade. “No one will ever touch you again. Sleep now.”
Min understood. The knowledge should have horrified him. It should have chilled him. Instead, lying in the dark, enclosed in the unbreakable cage of Jung’s arms, feeling the proof of their future curled within him, Min felt something dangerous blossom in his scarred heart.
He felt safe.
He closed his eyes, and for the first time in memory, he fell into a dreamless sleep without fighting it.