Chapter 6: Office Emergency Call
The studio was quiet that morning, a focused hush broken only by the scratch of vinyl-tipped pens on tracing paper and the low hum of the ventilation system. My desk was an island of organized chaos—scale models of a new boutique hotel, sample tiles, the precise lines of my drawings a language I understood. For a few hours, the only weight I felt was the satisfying pressure of a deadline.
Then Mark from Urban Planning reheated his tuna melt in the kitchenette.
The smell traveled, a greasy, fishy wave that seemed to bypass the air filters and hook directly into my brainstem. One second I was fine, pointing out a structural support column on a screen to Liam, our junior drafter. The next, my mouth flooded with saliva. A cold, clammy sweat broke out along my hairline.
“—so we can feasibly cantilever this section if we…” My own voice sounded distant.
Liam’s brow furrowed. “You okay? You just went… sort of green.”
I managed a tight shake of my head, clapping a hand over my mouth. I didn’t run. Walking fast was a precarious act of containment, one foot carefully in front of the other, down the corridor with its stupidly cheerful abstract art, push through the heavy restroom door. I made it to a stall, locked it, and dropped to my knees just in time.
It was violent, humiliating. My body was no longer mine; it was a traitorous vessel, convulsing until there was nothing left but dry heaves and a hollow, shaky ache. I slumped against the cool partition wall, forehead pressed to the metal. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead.
This was reality. Not a glow. Not a cute ceramic onesie. This was the smell of industrial cleaner and my own sour breath. I fumbled my phone from my pocket. My hands were trembling.
Me (10:14 AM): The baby really hates tuna.
Three dots appeared instantly. Then his name changed to a ringing phone. I swiped to answer, too weak for words.
“Where are you?” His voice was a blade, sharp with a worry he couldn’t disguise.
“Office bathroom. Floor.” My whisper was hoarse.
A beat of silence. I could picture his expression, the dark eyes narrowing, the mind already calculating routes and logistics. “I’m coming. Don’t move.”
“No, Seungcheol, it’s fine. It passed. I have a site meeting at one.”
“You’re on the floor of a public bathroom.” The statement was flat, final. “I’m ten minutes away. I’ll meet you at your desk.”
“You can’t just—”
“Ten minutes.”
The line went dead. Powerless, I hauled myself up, flushed, splashed water on my face. My reflection was pathetic—pale, mascara smudged under my eyes. I looked exactly like someone who needed to be collected. The frustration was a hot ball in my throat, competing with the nausea.
I walked back into the studio. The tuna smell was still there, fainter. Heads lifted from screens. My boss, Elena, gave me a sympathetic glance but didn’t say anything. I tried to look busy, shuffling papers I couldn’t read.
He was there in eight.
He didn’t rush, but his entrance had a gravitational pull. Dressed in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my monthly salary, he was utterly out of place among the exposed ductwork and standing desks. His gaze swept the room, found me, and zeroed in. He walked over, ignoring the curious stares. The studio, normally a chorus of low activity, fell into a watchful quiet.
“Hey,” I said, my voice still weak.
He didn’t answer. He just put a hand on my forehead, then my cheek, his touch clinical and gentle. “You’re clammy.” His eyes dropped to my trembling hands. “Where’s your bag? Your coat?”
“Seungcheol, I’m okay now. Really.” It was a feeble protest.
“Bag.” It wasn’t a question.
I nodded toward the drawer. He pulled it out, slung it over his shoulder, then helped me into my jacket like I was a child. His movements were efficient, devoid of any anger, just a pure, focused intent. He looked at Elena. “She’s unwell. She’ll be out for the day.”
Elena nodded quickly. “Of course. Feel better.”
He guided me out, his hand a firm support on the small of my back. I didn’t look back. The elevator ride was silent. He watched the numbers descend, his jaw a hard line.
In the parking garage, he bundled me into the passenger seat, leaned across to buckle my seatbelt. His cologne, usually a clean, sharp note, was overwhelming. My stomach rolled again.
“I need the window down.”
He cracked it immediately, then rounded the car and got in. He didn’t start the engine right away. He just sat, hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead. The tension in the car was a living thing.
“You have to stop this,” he said, his voice low.
“Stop what? Being pregnant?”
“Stop pretending it’s business as usual. You were vomiting on a bathroom floor. Your body is telling you to rest.”
“My body is telling me tuna is disgusting. It’s a first-trimester thing. It’s normal.” I heard the defensive edge in my own voice.
“I don’t care what’s normal.” He finally looked at me, and the raw fear in his eyes stunned me silent. “I care that you’re suffering and you’re forty minutes away and I can’t do anything. I can’t control this. I can’t fix it with a memo or a contract.”
There it was. The core of it. The helplessness. It was the same force that had driven him on the rooftop, but stripped of an external target, it was turning inward, into a suffocating anxiety.
“You don’t need to fix it,” I said quietly. “You just need to let me get through it.”
He started the car, pulling out with a smooth acceleration that felt like his only outlet. He didn’t drive home. He pulled into the first pharmacy he saw. “Wait here.”
I watched him stride inside, his tall frame cutting through the aisles. He returned five minutes later with a small plastic bag. He got back in, handed it to me without a word. Inside were two boxes of ginger chews, a bottle of electrolyte drink, and a packet of plain saline crackers.
My throat tightened. The gesture was so meticulously practical, so him. It was his version of a hug.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He nodded, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “You’re not going back today. I’m taking you home. I’ve cleared my afternoon. I’ll work from there.”
The declaration hung in the air. It wasn’t a discussion. I was too physically spent to mount a real argument. The fatigue was crashing down, a leaden wave following the adrenaline of being sick. I leaned my head against the cool glass of the window, the city blurring into streaks of grey and green.
The ginger chew helped. The silence between us softened, worn down by the rhythm of the drive. I felt my eyes grow heavy, the events of the morning melting into a dull background hum.
I must have dozed off. I awoke to the gentle deceleration as he turned into our driveway. My neck was stiff. I blinked, disoriented.
Before I could move, I felt him. A soft press of his lips against my temple, lingering, his breath warm on my skin. His hand settled on my thigh, not grasping, just resting there, a point of anchoring warmth. A silent apology for his harshness. A silent plea all its own.
I kept my eyes closed, pretending sleep for a moment longer, letting the dual sensation of his kiss and his hand seep into my bones—the relentless protector, and the man who was just scared, learning that the most important things couldn't be managed on a spreadsheet.
I kept my eyes closed, pretending sleep for a moment longer, letting the dual sensation of his kiss and his hand seep into my bones—the relentless protector, and the man who was just scared, learning that the most important things couldn't be managed on a spreadsheet. The car engine cut off, leaving a sudden, ringing quiet. He exhaled, a long, weary sound that had nothing to do with traffic.
“I know you’re awake,” he murmured, his thumb stroking my leg. “Your breathing changed.”
“It’s rude to point that out.” I opened my eyes to find him watching me, the harsh lines of his face softened by the dim garage light. “You kissed me.”
“You’re my wife. I’m allowed.” He unbuckled his seatbelt, then mine. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”
The short walk to the front door was supported by his arm around my waist. He was holding me up, but I could feel the tremble of sustained tension in his own frame. It vibrated through his wool suit jacket, a constant, low-frequency hum of suppressed alarm. He’d been in back-to-back meetings before my text, and the whiplash into crisis mode had left his system flooded with adrenaline with nowhere to go.
Inside, the calm of our home felt foreign. Sunlight streamed across the hardwood, illuminating dancing dust motes. He helped me out of my coat, his fingers lingering on my shoulders.
“Do you think you could eat a cracker?” he asked, his tone carefully measured, like he was handling volatile data.
“Maybe one. But first, I need to get out of these clothes.” The fabric of my trousers felt tight, constricting across my lower abdomen. It wasn’t a bump, not really. It was just a persistent, firm bloating that my old clothes resented. I’d been staring at it in the mirror for three mornings, willing it to look more like a baby and less like a big lunch.
I changed into soft cotton pajama pants and an old t-shirt of his. When I walked back into the bedroom, he was still there, standing at the window. He’d taken off his suit jacket and tie, rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. He was staring at the garden, phone in hand, but he wasn’t scrolling. He was just standing. A monument to worry.
The pharmacy bag was on the nightstand. I sat on the edge of the bed, the springs groaning softly, and opened the electrolyte drink. It tasted vaguely of citrus and minerals.
“You should take that conference call,” I said quietly. “The one you moved.”
“It’s handled.”
“Seungcheol.” I took another sip. “You’re vibrating. I can feel it from over here.”
He finally turned from the window. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not. You’re strung tighter than your tennis racket. You need to metabolize all that CEO cavalry energy.” I patted the space on the bed beside me. The afternoon sun warmed the duvet. “Come here. Just for a bit.”
His dark eyes narrowed slightly. “You need to rest. I’ll just distract you.”
“Your distraction is currently a silent, looming presence in our bedroom. It’s more stressful.” I softened my voice. “Please. Come and lie down with me. Just for twenty minutes. Your emails will survive.”
A muscle in his jaw feathered. He was warring with his own programming, the part that said productivity was solace, that action was the only antidote to fear. He looked at the bed, then at me in his oversized shirt, my hair messy from the car, my face probably still pale.
He surrendered with a quiet, defeated sound. He toed off his polished shoes, placed his phone face-down on the dresser, and lay down on top of the covers. He kept a careful, respectful foot of space between us, his body rigid, facing the ceiling.
I shifted, rolling onto my side to face him. I closed the distance, sliding my leg over his, settling my head against his shoulder. He instantly stiffened further.
“I’m going to crush you.”
“You’re not.” I draped an arm across his chest. Through the fine cotton of his shirt, I could feel the frantic drum of his heart. “Just breathe. For ten minutes, your only job is to be a pillow.”
He let out a slow, controlled breath. His arm came up, tentatively, to wrap around my shoulders. His other hand found mine where it rested on his sternum, lacing our fingers together. We lay like that, in the silent, sun-washed room. The only sounds were the distant whir of the refrigerator and the faint, rhythmic click of the bedroom clock.
Gradually, by degrees, the steel cable of his spine began to loosen. His breathing deepened, syncing with mine. The frantic heartbeat under my ear slowed to a steady, heavy rhythm.
His hand, absently stroking my arm, drifted lower. It settled, warm and broad, over my lower abdomen, where the old t-shirt had ridden up. His touch was gentle, inquisitive. His fingers splayed, pressing softly.
He went perfectly still. His breathing stopped.
“Is that…” he whispered, the words barely audible.
“Mostly gas and bloat, I think,” I said into his shirt, my own voice hushed. “It feels different, though. Harder. It doesn’t go away.”
He didn’t remove his hand. He held it there, as if conducting a delicate tactile scan. His thumb moved, a slow, reverent arc over the faint, firm swell beneath my skin. This was new. The rooftop, the fight, the frantic need—that was about an idea, a future. This was geography. A tangible line on a map only we could read.
“It’s real,” he said, and it wasn’t fear or anxiety in his voice now. It was awe, stripped bare and simple.
His other arm tightened around me, pulling me closer until not a sliver of light could fit between us. He buried his face in my hair, and his whole body seemed to sigh, a final release of the day’s coiled dread. The vibration was gone, replaced by a profound, settling weight.
“Don’t go back to the office,” he murmured against my scalp, but the demand was gone. It was a request, frayed at the edges.
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“Okay.” He kissed my hair. “Later.”
I felt the exact moment his consciousness truly slipped away, his muscles going heavy and slack, his breath becoming a deep, even tide against my cheek. I stayed awake a while longer, my own hand resting over his, feeling the impossible firmness beneath our joined palms, listening to the city’s distant murmur outside our silent, sun-drenched fortress.
I stayed awake a while longer, my own hand resting over his, feeling the impossible firmness beneath our joined palms, listening to the city’s distant murmur outside our silent, sun-drenched fortress. His sleep was so deep, so untroubled, it felt like a sacred object I was guarding. I finally drifted off too, wrapped in the heat of him.
I woke to an empty bed and the smell of coffee.
The space beside me was cool, the indentation on the pillow the only proof he’d been there at all. I stretched, and my body felt strangely hollowed out but calm. The nausea was a distant memory, for now.
I found him in the kitchen, not on his laptop, but reading the printed leaflet from the pharmacy box. He had changed into grey sweatpants and a worn university t-shirt, his hair damp from a shower. He looked younger, softer, utterly focused on a diagram about prenatal nutrition.
“You’re researching,” I said, my voice gravelly with sleep.
He glanced up, not startled. “It says small, frequent meals. Bland carbohydrates. The ginger was correct.” He closed the leaflet. “I made oatmeal. It’s bland. It’s also frequent, because you haven’t had any yet.”
A pot sat on the stove. A single bowl and spoon were set on the island. He’d even put the brown sugar on the side, in a little dish, because he knows I like to control the sprinkle. The mundane care of it hit me harder than the rooftop confrontation ever could.
“Thank you,” I said, sliding onto a stool.
He served me, watching as I took the first cautious bite. It was perfect—not too thick, not too runny. “So,” he began, leaning against the counter opposite me, crossing his arms. “The office.”
I swallowed. “It was a one-off. A tuna-based catastrophe.”
“And next time it’s someone’s egg salad. Or printer fumes. Or the specific floral perfume Lydia in accounting bathes in.” He kept his tone neutral, but his eyes were tracking my reaction. “You can’t control the triggers. I can’t control the distance.”
I put my spoon down. “What are you proposing? That I quit? That I lie in this fortress for the next seven months?”
“I’m proposing we discuss a practical adjustment. Remote work. A modified schedule. Elena respects you. She’ll agree.” He held up a hand before I could speak. “It’s not about capability. It’s about proximity. If you need to be sick, I want it to be in our bathroom, not on a floor I have to drive to.”
I twirled the spoon. “You want to manage the variables.”
“Yes.” He didn’t deny it. “For my sanity. Not just yours.”
The honesty disarmed me. I thought of him yesterday, a pillar of calm fury on the rooftop, and then today, meticulously reading a drugstore pamphlet. The whiplash between the CEO and the man was exhausting, even for me.
“I’ll talk to Elena about hybrid options,” I conceded. “But it’s my conversation. My negotiation.”
He nodded, a swift dip of his chin. “Okay.”
“Just like that?”
“You laid out a boundary. I’m respecting it.” He pushed off the counter and picked up his coffee mug. “I have a video conference in twenty. In my office. You’ll be okay?”
“I’ll probably manage the thrilling complexity of oatmeal and a sofa,” I said dryly.
A faint smile touched his mouth. He came around the island, kissed the top of my head, and then paused. His hand rested, just for a second, on the back of my neck. A silent check-in. Then he was gone, down the hall, and I heard the soft click of his office door.
The house felt different with us both in it on a weekday. I heard the low, muffled rhythm of his voice through the wall, all business. I washed my bowl, then wandered to the living room window. Rain had started, a fine drizzle that blurred the garden.
My phone buzzed on the sofa.
Minji (11:07 AM): Status report. Has he built a moat yet?
I smiled, typing back.
Me (11:08 AM): No moat. He made oatmeal and is now in a meeting. We’re negotiating my semi-confinement.
Minji (11:08 AM): Oatmeal? That’s weirdly sweet. My money was on him hiring a personal EMT. Hybrid work is smart. You get to keep your brain, he gets to pretend he’s not panicking. Everyone wins.
Me (11:09 AM): How’s the studio?
Minji (11:10 AM): Wet. The roof over the kiln area is leaking. Again. I have buckets everywhere. It looks like a very sad, clay-filled water feature.
Before I could answer, a sharp, acidic cramp seized my lower abdomen.
It wasn’t nausea. This was lower, a sudden, clenching fist deep inside. I froze, hand pressing into the window frame. The rain outside seemed to get louder. A cold, irrational fear, far darker than any morning sickness, shot through me.
It passed after a few seconds, leaving a dull ache. My breath came out shaky. I looked down at my stomach, hidden under the soft fabric of his shirt. Nothing looked different. But something had felt different.
Seungcheol’s voice droned steadily through the wall. “…Q3 projections require a reassessment of the logistics chain…”
I walked slowly to the bathroom, my heart a frantic bird against my ribs. I sat on the closed lid of the toilet, waiting. The ache faded to almost nothing. Maybe it was just a gas pain. Maybe it was my ligaments stretching. I’d read about that. It could be normal.
But the seed of panic was planted. It was a quiet, private terror. Telling him would make it a shared, real thing. It would detonate the fragile peace we’d built this morning.
Another twinge, milder. A reminder.
I stood and paced the few steps to the sink, gripping the cool porcelain. My reflection was pale again. I thought of the ceramic onesie on my desk at work, so fragile. I thought of his hand, so certain on my skin just hours ago.
The drone from his office stopped. His conference was over.
I heard his door open, his footsteps in the hall. They paused outside the bathroom door. “You in there?” His voice was casual, close.
“Yeah,” I said, too quickly.
A beat of silence. He could read a one-syllable lie from a mile away. “Everything okay?”
I unlocked the door and opened it. He was right there, his conference-call calm still etched on his face. It faltered when he saw mine.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just had a… a weird cramp.” The words sounded so small. “It’s probably nothing.”
All the softness from the kitchen vanished. His focus was absolute, telescoping down to me. “Where? How bad? Was there any bleeding?”
“No, nothing like that. Just a cramp. It’s gone now.” I hugged myself. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re scaring me more.”
He took a deliberate breath, visibly trying to dial back the intensity. “Okay.” He said it to himself as much as to me. “Okay. We should call Dr. Shin.”
“It’s probably just normal. I don’t want to be hysterical.”
“Information isn’t hysteria.” He was already pulling his phone from his pocket. “It’s data. We’re getting data.” He scrolled, put the phone to his ear, his other hand reaching for mine. His palm was warm, his grip firm. “Yes, hello. This is Seungcheol. My wife is a patient of Dr. Shin’s. We need to speak to the nurse, please.”
He listened, his eyes never leaving mine. I could hear the faint, tinny voice of the receptionist on the other end.
“She’s experiencing cramping. No bleeding. First trimester.” He nodded. “Yes. We can hold.” He muted the phone. “They’re checking.”
We stood there in the hallway, holding hands like passengers waiting for a lifeboat. The quiet house felt enormous around us. The only sound was the rain and the frantic beat of my own heart. He rubbed his thumb over my knuckles, a steady, rhythmic motion.
His phone unmuted. He lifted it. “Yes. I understand. Thank you.” He hung up. “The nurse said it can be normal. Round ligament pain. But if it gets severe, or if there’s any spotting, we go straight to the clinic. Otherwise, they’ll see you at your scheduled appointment next week.”
The relief was a physical wave, leaving me weak. I leaned into him, my forehead against his chest. “See? Data.”
His arms came around me, tight. “Data,” he echoed into my hair. But his heart was pounding against my ear. The fear hadn’t left him; it had just been given a name, a category to temporarily file it under.
He guided me to the sofa, sat me down, and brought me a glass of water. He sat beside me, close but not smothering. We watched the rain streak the windows.
“This is the part they don’t put in the brochures, is it?” he said after a long while. “The waiting. The not knowing. The sheer volume of things that can just… happen.”
“Yeah.” I curled my legs under me. “This is the part.”
He picked up the TV remote, then put it down. Work was clearly forgotten. The helplessness was back, but it was quieter now, a shared burden. “What do you need?” he asked, his voice rough.
I thought about it. I didn’t need oatmeal. I didn’t need a plan. The simple, childish truth surfaced. “I just need you not to leave.”
He settled deeper into the cushions, opening his arm. I moved into the space, fitting myself against him. He pulled a throw blanket over us both.
“Then I’m not leaving,” he said.
And for the rest of the afternoon, as the grey light faded, he didn’t. He held me through two more minor twinges that made us both go still and silent until they passed. He answered one urgent work email with his phone in one hand, the other steadily tracing circles on my back. We existed in a new kind of silence, charged not with tension, but with a raw, mutual vigilance. We were listening, together, to the quiet, mysterious work happening inside me, prepared for any signal, any change in the weather.