The dining table stretched long and heavy with candlelight, every place setting occupied by the men Taehyung had grown up watching—his father at the head, his two older brothers flanking the sides, Uncle Jae and Uncle Minho nursing their wine, Grandfather's weathered hands resting on the tablecloth, and his three male cousins already halfway through their plates. The women had retreated to the sitting room an hour ago, their laughter drifting through the walls like distant music.

Taehyung sat between his brothers, the silk of his blouse cool against the skin of his chest. The fabric draped over the soft swell that had always made him self-conscious, that his mother called "puppy fat" and his tailor called "a unique fitting challenge." He'd stopped binding years ago—the ache wasn't worth it—and somewhere along the way, he'd stopped hating what the mirror showed him.