Kensei Jon's Arc

Chapter 28 of 49

The papers sat on the table for a week. Ha-ni slept through the nights now. The house held quiet in a way it never had before. One evening Kensei banked the fire low and lay down beside Jeon-min on the mat. Ha-ni breathed in her crib an arm's length away. Kensei told himself he would sleep. He did not sleep. He watched Jeon-min in the low light. The tight curls of his perm. The line of his jaw. Kensei felt the pull start in his chest and move lower. He did not fight it. He reached across and set his hand on Jeon-min's hip. Jeon-min's eyes opened. He did not move away. His gaze went to the crib, then back to Kensei. "She's asleep," Kensei whispered. "She wakes easy." Jeon-min kept his voice under the fire's crackle. But his hand found Kensei's and held it there. He did not push it off. He drew it flat against his skin. They moved slow. Every sound was a risk. Kensei pressed his mouth to Jeon-min's neck to keep quiet. Jeon-min's breath caught, then steadied. He tugged the loose knot of Kensei's belt without a word. The tie slid free. Neither of them spoke. They watched the crib between each breath. Ha-ni stirred once. A small sound, half a cry. Both of them froze. Kensei's heart slammed. Jeon-min lifted his head and listened. The baby settled. Her breathing evened out. Jeon-min let out a slow breath and turned back to Kensei. He almost smiled. "Careful," he mouthed. "I'm careful," Kensei mouthed back. They were not careless. They were quiet as thread pulling through cloth. Jeon-min's fingers gripped Kensei's shoulder hard when it came, but he made no sound. Kensei held his own breath and pressed his face to the mat. When it was done they lay still, chests heaving in silence, sweat cooling. The fire had burned to coals. Ha-ni had not woken. Kensei laughed then, a shake of the shoulders with no sound. Jeon-min elbowed him to stop. But Jeon-min was shaking too. "We did it," Kensei whispered. "We didn't wake her." "This time." Jeon-min pulled the blanket over them both. He was quiet a moment. Then he said the thing plain. "We can't do that with her in the room. Not for long. She'll wake older. She'll understand." Kensei went still. He had not thought that far. A crib in the corner tonight. A child watching from a mat next year. The house had one room for sleeping. "We need a wall," Jeon-min said. "A door. A room that's hers and a room that's ours." He said it once more, flat. "A wall." Kensei looked at the crib, then at the low ceiling above them. The house was theirs. But it was one open room. Tomorrow he would have to change that.