Touch Therapy: Where Hands Go, Bodies Beg-Chapter 270 - 271: Home

The apartment felt different with the baby inside it.

Not because anything had changed—same couch, same kitchen island, the same faint scent of laundry soap and garlic lingering in the curtains.

Because the air itself had a new rule now.

Be quiet. Be careful. Be present.

Yura stood in the entryway for a moment, one hand on the baby carrier handle, the other braced against the wall. Her body still moved like it was learning itself again—slow, cautious, sore in places she didn’t want to name out loud.

Joon-ho hovered beside her, keys still in his hand like he’d forgotten how doors worked.

Mirae slipped in behind them with a tote bag and a pillow tucked under her arm, eyes scanning the apartment like she was stepping onto a set—only her face wasn’t performing.

Harin followed with two grocery bags, moving with quiet purpose.

"Okay," Harin said, voice low as if the walls could wake the baby. "Shoes off. Hands washed. Bags down. I’ll disinfect the doorknobs."

Mirae blinked. "Doorknobs?"

Harin nodded solemnly. "Doorknobs."

Joon-ho looked grateful. "Thank you."

Yura shot him a tired look. "You’re going to let her run a hospital in my living room?"

"Yes," Joon-ho said immediately.

Yura huffed a laugh that turned into a wince. She shifted her weight.

Joon-ho noticed instantly, hand half-reaching. "Pain?"

Yura lifted a finger. "Don’t."

He froze, then forced his hand down. "Okay. Sorry."

Yura swallowed and stared at the baby carrier.

The baby was asleep—tiny face turned slightly to the side, mouth relaxed. Too quiet.

Yura’s chest tightened.

"Why is she so quiet?" Yura whispered.

Joon-ho leaned down too fast, peering like his eyes could measure breathing. "She’s sleeping."

"What if she—"

"She’s breathing," Harin said from the kitchen, already washing her hands. Calm. Certain. "Newborns are dramatic in cycles. Loud. Then silent. Then loud again."

Mirae crouched beside the carrier, her gaze soft. "She’s perfect."

Yura didn’t answer. She just stared until she felt her throat closing.

Joon-ho’s voice dropped. "Yura."

Yura blinked hard. "I’m fine."

He didn’t argue. He just picked up the carrier with both hands like it contained something sacred and walked slowly to the living room, placing it on the rug where the light was softer.

Harin opened one of the grocery bags. "I brought congee ingredients. Easy food. Warm. No chewing required."

Mirae set her pillow on the couch, then looked at Yura. "Do you want me to take her so you can shower?"

Yura’s immediate instinct was to refuse.

Mine.

Then her body reminded her of reality with a deep ache that made her vision pulse.

Yura exhaled. "Maybe... later."

"Okay," Mirae said, no pressure.

Harin pointed toward the bedroom. "Yura, you sit. Joon-ho, you eat something. Mirae, water. Now."

Joon-ho blinked. "Yes, ma’am."

Yura stared at him. "Don’t encourage her."

Joon-ho’s mouth twitched. "I’m too tired to resist her."

Yura sank onto the couch carefully. The cushion felt too soft. Her core muscles felt like they had been negotiated away.

Mirae handed her water without a word, then sat on the other end of the couch like a gentle presence.

Joon-ho paced once, then sat on the floor beside the baby carrier, staring down as if he might will the baby to keep being okay.

Harin moved in the kitchen, the sound of rinsing rice and a pot being set on the stove like a lullaby for adults.

For ten minutes, it almost felt normal.

Then the baby’s face scrunched.

A small sound came out—tiny, uncertain.

Yura’s whole body went alert.

Joon-ho’s head snapped up. "Is that—"

The baby’s mouth opened.

And the apartment filled with a cry that was too big for something so small.

Yura flinched like the sound hit her directly in the chest. "Oh—oh no—"

Joon-ho surged forward, hands hovering. "What do we do?"

Mirae was already leaning in, voice calm. "Okay. Okay. She’s saying hello."

Harin appeared from the kitchen doorway like a commander responding to an alarm. "When did she last feed?"

Yura blinked, brain blank. "In the hospital. Before we left. I— I don’t know."

Joon-ho’s eyes widened. "We should time it."

Harin’s gaze flicked to him. "No. We feed her if she’s hungry."

Joon-ho swallowed. "Okay."

Yura tried to sit up straighter, then hissed at the pull in her body. Her eyes stung instantly from pain and frustration.

Mirae’s hand touched her shoulder gently. "I can take her."

Yura’s first instinct screamed no.

Her second instinct—the new one—whispered: accept help or you will break.

Yura nodded, just once.

Mirae lifted the baby with careful confidence, cradling her against her chest. The baby cried harder for a second, offended by the movement.

Mirae rocked lightly. "Hey. Hey. It’s okay."

Harin approached Yura, voice low. "Do you want to nurse or bottle?"

Yura’s face warmed. "Nurse."

Joon-ho stood too quickly, then looked helpless. "What do I do?"

Harin pointed. "You bring a pillow. You get her water. You breathe."

Joon-ho nodded like he’d been assigned a life-saving task. He rushed to get the nursing pillow, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug.

Yura watched him and felt a strange, tender ache.

He was brilliant in emergencies.

And completely wrecked by love.

Mirae handed the baby to Yura carefully. The baby rooted immediately, small mouth searching, impatient.

Yura fumbled, hands clumsy. Her nipples were sore already, her body sensitive and strange.

The baby latched, then unlatched, then cried again.

Yura’s breath hitched. "I’m doing it wrong."

Joon-ho leaned in, alarmed. "Let me—"

"No," Yura snapped, then softened immediately. "No. Just... don’t."

Harin’s voice was calm, steady. "You’re not doing it wrong. She’s learning. You’re learning."

Mirae sat close, eyes focused, not intrusive. "Try angling her chin up a little."

Yura adjusted.

The baby latched again.

This time it held.

The crying stopped abruptly, replaced by small, frantic sucking sounds.

Yura’s shoulders dropped like someone had cut strings.

Joon-ho exhaled loudly, like he’d survived something. "Oh my god."

Yura’s eyes stung. She stared down at the baby’s tiny face pressed against her, and the tenderness hit so hard it was almost painful.

"I can’t believe she’s real," Yura whispered.

Mirae’s eyes shimmered. "She’s real."

Harin nodded once, satisfied like a problem had been solved. "Good. We keep it boring. Boring is safe."

Joon-ho looked at Harin like she was a genius. "Boring is safe."

Yura let out a breathy laugh that turned into a wince.

Joon-ho’s hand reached toward her reflexively, then stopped mid-air. "Pain?"

Yura’s voice went small. "Everything hurts."

Joon-ho’s face tightened, guilt immediate. "I’m sorry."

Yura blinked. "Why are you sorry?"

"Because I can’t—" He stopped. His throat worked. "Because you’re hurting and I can’t fix it."

Yura looked at him for a long second, then down at the baby still feeding.

"You can," Yura said softly.

Joon-ho’s eyes flicked to hers. "How?"

"By staying," Yura whispered. "By not panicking. By holding me when I feel like I’m falling apart."

Joon-ho’s mouth trembled slightly. He nodded once, hard. "Okay. Okay."

Harin cleared her throat. "After she’s done, we burp her. Then diaper. Then sleep attempt number one."

Mirae murmured, "Sleep attempt number one sounds optimistic."

Harin’s eyes didn’t leave the baby. "Optimism is also a system."

The baby unlatched with a small pop and blinked sleepily, milk dribbling at the corner of her mouth.

Yura stared, exhausted and amazed. "She’s... messy."

Mirae smiled. "Like her dad."

Joon-ho protested quietly, "Hey."

Harin held out a cloth. "Wipe. Burp."

Joon-ho took the baby carefully—too carefully, like his arms might forget how to function. The baby made a tiny squawk of indignation.

Joon-ho froze. "She hates me."

"She doesn’t hate you," Yura said, too tired to tease properly. "She’s just... loud."

Mirae stood. "I’ll show you. Support her head. Like that."

Joon-ho mirrored Mirae’s posture, his hands still trembling slightly.

Then the baby burped—small, surprising.

Joon-ho stared at the baby like she’d performed magic.

Mirae laughed softly. "See? She’s fine."

Joon-ho’s eyes were wet. He blinked hard, embarrassed.

Yura watched him, her chest tightening with love and fear braided together.

Harin announced, "Diaper."

Joon-ho looked terrified. "I can do it."

"Good," Harin said. "Because you will."

They moved to the changing pad. Joon-ho fumbled with the tabs like they were complicated medical equipment.

The baby kicked.

Something warm happened.

Harin stepped back instantly. "There it is."

Joon-ho stared down, horrified. "She—"

Mirae burst into laughter, covering her mouth. "Welcome."

Yura laughed too, but it cracked into a small sob halfway through, exhaustion making her emotions slippery.

Joon-ho’s head snapped up. "Yura—"

Yura wiped her cheek quickly, embarrassed. "I’m fine."

Harin’s voice softened. "You’re not fine. You’re postpartum."

Yura huffed a laugh through tears. "Is that the new excuse for everything?"

"Yes," Harin said immediately. "It is."

Mirae approached Yura and knelt by the couch, voice gentle. "Do you want to shower now?"

Yura stared at the bathroom door like it was miles away. "I’m scared to stand."

Joon-ho looked like he was about to stand and carry her.

Yura shot him a look. "Don’t."

Joon-ho froze again.

Mirae touched Yura’s hand. "I’ll walk you. Slowly."

Harin added, "I’ll watch the baby while he cleans the war zone."

Joon-ho opened his mouth to argue, then shut it. "Okay."

Yura stood with Mirae’s support, moving like her body was made of fragile glass. Each step felt like a reminder of what she’d done.

In the bathroom, Mirae turned the light low and ran warm water.

Yura gripped the sink edge, breathing, suddenly overwhelmed.

Mirae’s voice was soft. "You don’t have to be strong right now."

Yura’s throat tightened. "I don’t know how not to be."

Mirae smiled sadly. "Then let us hold it for you."

Yura blinked rapidly, then nodded once, surrendering to help like it was a new skill.

When she came out in fresh clothes, hair damp, she found the living room dim, the baby finally asleep in the bassinet.

Harin sat on the floor nearby, back against the couch, eyes open and alert like she was on night watch.

Joon-ho stood by the bassinet, hands on the edge, staring down as if he could keep the baby asleep through devotion alone.

Yura approached quietly.

Joon-ho looked up, saw her, and his face softened in visible relief.

"You okay?" he whispered.

Yura’s voice was small and honest. "I’m scared."

Joon-ho’s eyes shone. "Me too."

Yura stepped into him. Joon-ho wrapped his arms around her carefully, holding her like she might break, but also like he needed her to anchor him.

Yura whispered against his chest, "What if I don’t know what I’m doing?"

Joon-ho’s voice was rough. "Then we don’t know together."

Harin, without opening her eyes, murmured, "Correct answer."

Mirae curled up on the other end of the couch with a blanket, voice sleepy-soft. "Try to sleep, you two."

Yura and Joon-ho didn’t move for a moment.

Then, in the dim light, with the baby finally quiet and the apartment holding its breath, Yura let herself sink onto the couch.

Joon-ho sat beside her immediately, one hand finding hers like a reflex.

They didn’t talk.

They listened.

To the baby’s tiny breaths. To the distant city. To the kettle settling in the kitchen.

To the new life inside their old walls.

And when Yura finally drifted into her first shallow, fragile sleep at home, Joon-ho stayed awake—eyes on the bassinet, hand still holding hers—like fear could be transformed into a vigil, and tenderness could become a promise that lasted until morning.